The American Candide
by Tzitzimime
Summary: Alfred F. Jones, gullible, carefree American and new resident of the United Kingdom, quickly finds himself greatly disliking the new country he has moved to, mainly because of the rain. There is nothing of interest in the pub in which he now works, except perhaps mysterious tales of a man who hasn't left his house for fifteen years. (USUK, some implied Franada)
1. Chapter 1

_Hello guys! I hope you enjoy reading my fanfiction; I only recently got back into the fandom, so I'm sorry if my characterisation is a bit off :/_

_I really love the character Boo Radley in To Kill A Mockingbird; I love the idea of someone not wanting to leave their house because of the outside world. _

_Okay, I'll stop waffling; I hope you enjoy reading this first chapter! If you would be kind enough to leave a review, that would be super great ^^_

"_In that book which is my memory,  
On the first page of the chapter that is the day when I first met you,  
Appear the words, 'Here begins a new life'."  
―__ Dante Alighieri, __Vita Nuova_

Folks in the town were always terribly concerned about the weather. Even on days like this one, when the sun was aglow in the cloud-free sky, and the residents of the town didn't have to swaddle themselves in multiple layers of clothing when walking to work, people always found something to complain about. A conversation wasn't a conversation with a glum remark about the forecast, and a person was able to tell if something was bothering his companion if he didn't cast his eyes up to the sky and say "Horrible day, isn't it?"

Unlike in some towns, where people would fix their eyes to the ground and ignore one another when walking to their destinations, in this town every man and woman always had their eyes fixed on the heavens, watching for any change. People would stop one another in the streets and comment on how the clouds were looking that day, or how the sun seemed to beat a little more intensely on the backs of their necks than it had been the previous day, and that they all had to drench themselves in sun lotion to stay safe.

Arthur Kirkland had not seen the sky in ten years.

Of course he'd _seen _the sky, out of the grime-stained windows on the second floor, but he had never stood under it, never been open to the elements, be it rain or shine. There was a cracked pressure dial in the hall, but he doubted it worked, and the thick curtains pulled over the ground floor windows didn't let much light in anyway. It was as if the house had an atmosphere of its own, as if it was a little world secluded from the rest of humanity.

Well, it was, in some aspects.

Arthur Kirkland couldn't remember the last time the postman had actually put something in the letterbox, and couldn't recall when the milkman had last delivered his order straight to his door. It wasn't like any of that mattered anyway- he collected the milk from its delivery spot on his back doorstep, and he didn't think there were really any letters he had left to receive, or even wanted to receive. There was no-one left to send him birthday cards, not that he could remember when his birthday was, and there certainly weren't any documents he needed to sign or read concerning any issues with his life. As far as the rest of the world was concerned, his life was pretty much over.

His hand, which had been resting on his knee, reached out to firmly grip the handle of the single cracked teacup resting on the arm of the chair he was sat in. His hand shook so dramatically that he had to set the cup down again, concentrate his willpower, and resume lifting the cup to his lips.

The tea was lukewarm, as it always was when he got round to actually drinking it, but he didn't mind. Lukewarm was better than cold, and cold was better than dead. The house possessed two stoves, but he didn't want to light one in case the neighbours saw the smoke rising from the chimney, or if his trembling hands dropped a match and the entire house went up in flames. Which, he thought, were both reasonable arguments, leaving him to shiver next to a battered paraffin lamp in a house that sometimes got frost on the third floor walls.

The cold edge of the cup touched his lips, and he sipped the tea in a delicate manner. He'd always liked tea, tea was the only thing he dared to drink, and the stash of tea leaves that had lived in the pantry for goodness knows how long were as good as ever. Or so he thought. Maybe his sense of taste was deteriorating along with the leaves. He hoped not; he liked to think he was not deluded in any way shape or form. There was no way Arthur Kirkland would ever forgive himself if he ended up in a lunatic asylum.

As he lacked the advanced meteorological knowledge the townspeople shared, his interior conversations were a little less than intriguing. _Look at the door; soon it'll be hanging off its hinges. Reckon the second floor's rotted enough to cave in? My my, the windows sure have more dust on them than they did yesterday, maybe it's the moths. _

His thought processes were not the most stimulating things on the planet, and he knew that; ten years in the same house had taught him a lot about thinking. It was better to just function in a sort of dormant state than bother interacting with oneself, it cut out hours of tedium, and a lack of connection with one's brain meant the days just flew by.

It had been a shock for him when he had realised how old he was.

_Twenty five. _He should be travelling the world on one of those steam ships, exploring the globe for places unseen and undiscovered. He could have finished his education, maybe have found himself a degree. He could be _married._ Hah, as if. If Arthur Kirkland had learned anything about himself, it was that he and romance weren't meant to be. The best romances were in books, nothing real ever amassed to the tales of love, loss and paradise that he so frequently read about.

He had probably read the same shelf of books in his entire lifetime. The previous owners of the house had not been too keen on letting their son engage with literary materials, especially those of romantic nature, so the only works he had access to were those his mother possessed. He took one to read each week, finishing each one in a matter of days, then swapping it for the next one. They were all tales of wispy brides being galloped after by tall men on magnificent horses, and the women having to choose between two suitors. Even after the seventh read, he still found them thrilling. He couldn't understand how two people would even find a person out of the millions in the world who would return their affections, but he found it interesting nonetheless.

Upon finishing his tea, he came to the conclusion that it was time he graced his tired eyes with the joy of his reflection. He was not vain, not in the slightest, but he liked to feel he was still upholding the aesthetic values of a gentleman. No stubble, cleanly dressed, kempt hair.

Setting his teacup down on the coffee table which was still missing a leg, he rose from his chair. It made the bones in his knees complain and his back stoop, but he managed to stand up and walk to the stairwell. It was one of those days when he felt like a ghost, gliding through the layers of dust like he didn't exist. He had grown accustomed to avoiding the creaking spots on the stairs, so as he ascended to the second floor, he made hardly any sound at all. Books and many sheets of paper littered the steps, along with odd clothes that didn't belong to him and various broken vases and dishes. They had been there ten years prior. He didn't want to move them.

Reaching the second floor of the house without more than a few wheezy coughs, he strode into the middle of the room and sighed. There was a long mirror hung on the back wall, flanked by a vanity table and a chest of drawers. It was grimy around the edges, and there was a long crack going down the middle, but he was still able to see his reflection in it, even with in the dim light.

His eyes were big, much too big for his face, and were the sort of muted green that was neither vibrant nor interesting. Even in the lack of light, he could see his skin was; pallid, not creamy, and there were tiny veins showing at his temples. His hair was light, almost feathery, and looked colourless. He wasn't really sure what colour it was, or what colour it used to be. He looked like a watercolour that had been rained on- the colours from his eyes, his skin, were muted and washed out, almost translucent, like they weren't really there.

Averting his eyes before he became too absorbed in his appearance, he turned away and paced across the room. The wallpaper was faded yet recognisable as a rose pattern, the furniture was mostly woodworm free. Nothing in the house had changed apart from slowly gathering more nothing, nothing except him. Perhaps the house was heaping his age on him, sapping his life while it remained youthful. Definitely not; he was merely being fanciful. There was no such reason to his wasting away, other than the disappearance of hope in his life.

Once he had hoped to leave the house, he had prayed to be freed and to see the world as he had so wished. He had thought, when he remained the sole owner of the property, that he would be free to do as he pleased.

But Arthur Kirkland was as trapped in his head as he was in his house.

In the distance, so faint he could have mistaken it for a passing carriage, the foghorn of a ship sounded. ahahauhadouiasdsdddhddddaHBD


	2. Chapter 2

_Wow… I never expected to get reviews within the first hour, and positive ones too! Thank you very much!  
I will be writing from Alfred's perspective, and sorry if these leading-up-to-things chapters don't have a lot of USUK action._

_I hope you enjoy this chapter, please leave a review if you enjoyed it, or you can PM me if that's your thing._

_I apologise for the awful French._

Alfred F. Jones had never been very good at geography. He had a rudimentary understanding of roughly what sort of shape the earth was- he had been so overwhelmed to hear that the earth was round and not flat like a pancake that, when he was six, he had seen how far he could run before he dropped off the edge of the earth- and he could possibly point to where America was if he was presented with a map. America was his home, and he knew it reasonably well enough for a non-travelling sort of person. He was familiar with the heat, the communities, even the food. He, however, had no idea what England was supposed to be like. 

During the trip on the steam ship, over the seemingly endless sea, he had envisioned tall, thatched buildings like the ones from fairy tales, and wide streets filled with delicate, polite people who spoke in coiffured accents and preened themselves like hens. He'd imagined tall temptresses in the tightest corsets imaginable, leaning out of windows to talk to people on the streets below. He'd seen the river, clear and bright under the cloudless autumn sky, the churches standing proud like sentinels over the smaller buildings. He had seen paradise, true and clear, until the moment he had stepped off the steam ship.

Nothing could have prepared him for what he saw before him.

The water sloshing up through the cracks in the walkway the ship had docked by was covered in a thin film of oil and grime, and he was careful not to tread his fine leather shoes in it. The street cobbles themselves were also covered in dirt, and Alfred didn't want to stare too long at it in case he caught sight of something, well, _unsightly. _The air was filled with pungent fumes; those of the steam ship mixed with something more ashy, and they made him wish for the clean salt air once more. And, if he tore his eyes from the ground and cast his gaze skywards, he saw the clouds knotting and roiling like bark on a great celestial tree, and saw the factories with their far-off chimneys stabbing the sky with all the cruelty of a needle.

Alfred F. Jones was not very happy.

Where were the temptresses garbed in their fancy attire? Where were the brightly dressed street pedlars, who gave flowers to the ladies as they walked by? Where was the cloudless sky, shining down onto a town full of good moods? Alfred felt as if he had been thrown into a cold pool, all the excitement and anticipation draining out of him. This was England. And he hated it.

Keeping a firm grip on his case in one hand, and his hat in the other, he crossed the walkway and began to walk along the cobbled street, eyes scanning for any signs of a means of escape. He had nowhere near enough money to get back onto the steam ship and puff off back to America, and there was no way he would be able to afford accommodation that had a rat-free mattress. If England was anything like where he had lived previously- judging by the current view he was getting, it was- he would have to search for a long time until he would be able to find an employer willing to take him on. No-one liked an orphan; they brought bad luck to the workplace. Or so he had been told. Frankly, he couldn't see anyone better suited for a highly paid job than himself.

Walking down the street without talking to anyone was a challenge. Back home, he had hollered and hooted at everyone he saw in the street- shy ladies, equally brash men, just anyone on the street. Here, it appeared, that hooting and hollering was not something the British were fond of engaging in. All the faces he saw were cold and hard, eyes fixed far off into the distance as they ploughed on towards their destinations. No man's eyes ever met another's, not even when Alfred tried it. It was like they all lived in their own little worlds, far away from everyone else.

Alfred, in his three- piece borrowed- he wasn't intending to give it back- suit and old brown case, stood out like a sore thumb. He had tried and failed to brush his blonde hair into the flat sort of style all the real gentlemen had, but all it had done was rumple it even more, and, try as he might, the little lick of hair that always stood on end wasn't going to lie flat any time soon. He knew he didn't look gentlemanly, or even manly, but it wasn't a problem he could fix. He would just have to find someplace that would let a mismatched little orphan in, and would give him a bed to sleep in until he sorted himself out.

He turned a corner, and entered another street, this one narrower and hemmed in on both side by shops and houses alike. If he looked behind him, he couldn't see the dock anymore, but that was alright. Looking back and seeing the ship would only increase the steadily worsening feeling of dread that was growing inside him. There wasn't going to be anywhere for him to stay, was there?

Feeling slightly sick, due to both the fact that he had only recently introduced his feet to solid ground again, and that fact that he was probably going to be sleeping on the streets that night, he looked up and began to read the signs swinging from the sides of the houses. Tailors, bakers, an inn, a bar, two more inns, and more bars than he could count- did the British just drink all day? It seemed so, as even though it was just past two in the afternoon, men were pouring in and out of the various bars, holding drinks and talking loudly with their companions. Not one of them appeared to be acting sober, and Alfred skirted around them as he walked by. He didn't want to be mixing with those sorts of men, especially considering he didn't want the little money he had to be wasted on drinks.

Alfred had given up on trying finding a building that wasn't an alehouse, so he changed direction quickly and entered the bar that had the least drunk men lolling outside it. The air inside was stale and tepid, almost like a drink that had been left out too long. There was a single scrubbed wooden bar, behind which a man was cleaning glasses, and small tables and stools filled the rest of the room. He hadn't bothered to look at the name of the bar, but he assumed by the interior décor and the certain gormlessness of the man cleaning the glasses that it wasn't anything particularly inventive.

"Excuse me, sir." Alfred said, walking over to the bar and sitting down on a stool. His voice sounded slightly tinny in his ears. "I'd like a bourbon."

The man, who was cleaning the glasses as if he was cleaning human bones, looked up at him with a smirk that only contained nine teeth. "Whassat, Yank?" He said, in a voice louder than if he had been talking to just Alfred alone. Immediately all of the men drinking in the bar turned around to listen in on the conversation. "Ain't got no bourbon here."

It took Alfred a long moment to register what he had said; the man's accent was none too understandable, and he continued staring blankly at the man as other voices began to join in.

"Look at 'im, fresh off the boat an' all."

"He's got one o' them cases look; maybe he's going someplace fancy."

"Ain't seen a Yank round here for a long while, thought they'd decided to stop irritating us."

Alfred didn't want to look round at all the faces who were staring so intently at him, so he just stared miserably at the bar. The voices felt unkind, jabbing at his ears like the teasing punches of an older sibling, annoying him more than anything. They made him feel strange, like he was an _alien_, like he didn't belong-

"-in 'ere at all." The bartender finished, making Alfred look up in surprise. He hadn't realised the man had been talking to him. The bartender had set down the glass he was cleaning, and now had both hands placed flat on the bar, his stare too prying for Alfred's liking. His face contorted into a frown. "You even listenin', stupid American?"

Alfred jumped back with a start. "Yeah," He said quietly. "I was."

Alfred didn't realise they were all laughing at him until they starting mimicking him, putting on a Texan sort of twang and sticking their heads out like chickens.

"Listen to his talk," They were saying. "Listen to his talk."

He felt his face flush in embarrassment, and he lowered his head, wanting to be out of there as fast as he could.

"We don't serve bourbon here." The bartender leered. "Especially not to one of you Yank folks."

And with that, Alfred left the bar, serenaded by shouts and jeers. The back of his neck felt hot, and he knew he was flushing. He always flushed when humiliated, he couldn't help it. As soon as he left the bar, he started walking as fast as he could- head bowed, case and hat clutched tightly in his hands. He wanted to be away from all this as soon as possible, but as he looked around, there were just similar pubs dotting the street, with similar looking men drinking similar looking drinks inside them. Alfred felt even more out of place; everyone looked the same, drank the same, went to the same places. He was the newcomer, and he had a horrible feeling that they knew that. He wondered if the whole of the town was like this, or if all the men were like that. He hoped not, otherwise he'd have a better chance of swimming back to America than trying to get a decent place to stay here.

After about ten more minutes of walking, he rounded another corner, and was faced with yet more bars. However, these ones seemed to be a little different. Unlike the greasy bar he had stumbled into earlier, these ones had certain… _flair_ to them.

One pub had rust-red painted eaves, and the curtains in the windows hung heavy with brightly coloured fabrics. It was just as busy as the previous bar had been, and a rich scent of spices wafted across the street towards him. There was a sign, hand-painted and swinging cheerfully in the light breeze. '_The Golden Elephant' _it read, and the sign showed an image of an elephant decorated in swirling patterns. Alfred was intrigued, he had never seen a place like that before, but he was hesitant to enter. The atmosphere looked-and sounded- boisterous, and Alfred didn't want to be ridiculed again, so he decided to continue down the street. If nothing else appealed to him, he could always go back there when it quietened down a little; it didn't seem like the kind of place that would kick him out simply because he was new.

The afternoon was beginning to drag on, and less and less people were hurrying down the street. Alfred assumed they were going to work or something; they appeared to be in something of a hurry, but he didn't dare ask. Being called a Yank hurt more than it should have.

As he continued down the street, he noticed one building in particular which was not bustling with as many people as the other's. It was a grand traditional Georgian-style building, all height and no width, but the furniture outside looked a little more exotic and stylish. The sign, painted with all the skill of a Renaissance artist, depicted a blonde woman in a white dress holding a rose to her chest. Alfred had no idea who the women was, if she was anyone at all, but it enticed his curiosity nonetheless. He could hear the soft notes of a piano coming from inside, and the slightly more ambient sound of people talking, with the occasional clink of a glass.

Alfred F. Jones, tired and fed up of being in England, could not resist going and taking a closer look. He could smell cooking as well, the rich aroma of baking, and his stomach led him across the street and through the door. A little bell dinged when he walked in, making him jump slightly.

The greeting he received was a thousand times warmer than the one he had been previously graced with.

"Bonjour, good day, welcome to the Marie Antoinette public house and inn," Boomed the man standing behind the somewhat overly varnished bar. Alfred stopped in his tracks, looked around to see if he was addressing anyone else but himself, and continued to remain silent. The man frowned, but resumed his beaming a moment later. "How may I help you, a drink perhaps? Somewhere to stay?"

Alfred would have happily gone for the drink and thought about accommodation later, but his bad mood prompted more rational thinking. He stood a little awkwardly by the door, not sure whether he liked the over-familiarity of the bartender. He held his case closer to him, as if the watching faces surrounding the bar were going to reach out and grab it if he agreed.

The pause in which he mulled the question over was longer than he had thought, and the bartender was looking at him with an expectant expression. "Uh…" He trailed off, not sure whether this was the right decision or not. Did he really want to spend the night in a pub, albeit a pretty nice looking one? Would he end up drinking all night, as it was customary for him to do around any sort of alcohol? He hoped not, tomorrow's task would require a sober and hangover-free mind. "Both, I guess."

The bartender, whom Alfred assumed was not English due to his heavily accented words, clapped his hands with delight. "Excellent, I shall have a room ready for you before the hour is over, good sir." Alfred smiled in relief, mostly to wipe the look of incredulousness off his face. He had, after the last pub he had gone into, expected to be greeted with similar courtesy.

The bartender clapped his hands again, and Alfred took a moment to observe him. He was tall, taller than Alfred, and somewhat more mature of face, even though he still looked young. His hair was nearly shoulder length, wavy, and was a light gold sort of colour. It was the kind of colour that reminded him of the sun, rather than a corn field sort of colour. His eyes were bright cerulean, and there was a slight amount of stubble on his chin. If Alfred were to be so bold, he would say the man looked quite handsome. Not that that implied anything about himself, of course, he was just making a judgement.

Alfred stepped further into the room, and sat himself down onto one of the stools by the bar. Ah, it felt good to finally sit down. The boat journey, even on the calmest of days, had upset his stomach to no end, and the walk to this safe haven had been arduous. Most would have said Alfred was just being melodramatic, but he thought he had a perfect reason to consider his journey arduous.

A glass of brandy was slid towards him by the blonde bartender, and he took a gulp from it immediately. "Thanks," He muttered, giving the bartender a half smile. "How much do I owe you for the room?"

The bartender shook his head, his eyes flashing. "_Non_, you owe me nothing for you first night. You arrived here today, _oui_?"

Alfred finally realised the man's accent was French as he frowned up at him, the glass of brandy still in his hand. "What? Surely I have to pay money to stay here. And how did you know I had only got off the boat today?" He hoped he hadn't walked into some hostel, or worse.

The Frenchman waved a hand airily, shaking his head. "You are carrying a case, _monsieur, _and you have the only type of tiredness a man gets when he sees England for the first time." The man winked at him, and Alfred wasn't sure if he was all too comfortable with the gesture. "As it is your first time here, I shall charge you nothing for the first night." Alfred swore he leaned closer to him. "You'll get discount if you stay tomorrow night as well."

Regardless of how morbid this situation could turn out, Alfred nodded. "Sure thing, sir, I-"

The bartender clapped a hand a little dramatically on Alfred's shoulder. "Sir? My, you've caught the English way of speaking already. It's Bonnefoy, but you can call me Francis."

Alfred sipped more of the brandy, grateful for its warmth, and grinned at Francis. "I'm Alfred; I guess you've already figured out where I'm from."

Francis winked at him again. "And what prompted you to leave the land of the free?"

He rolled his eyes and stared into the bottom of his glass. "There's nothing for me there.

The bartender rested his hands on the bar, and leaned across to him. "Business problems? If so, there's not much point in having aspirations in this place."

Alfred shook his head. "Nah, not anything financial. I-I lost my parents last year." He'd never spoken to any of his previous friends about it, so why was he so confident talking about it now? The events were in a different time, a different place, a different _country._ He guessed that now, now that he was in England, it seemed like his parents had never died at all. He hoped he could forget about it soon, and move on with his new life.

Francis' eyes widened, and he patted Alfred sincerely on the shoulder. "I am sorry, _mon ami, _I hope you find what you are looking for here." His eyes flashed again, and Alfred was sure this was some kind of trap. "A job perhaps?"

Ah, that's what he wanted; a cheap, willing worker, who would do anything just to get paid. Which, at the moment, was what Alfred was turning out to be.

"A job?" Answering a question with a question was just one of Alfred's many talents. "What kind of job?"

Francis smiled. "Not a nasty job of any sort, just to clear tables, clean glasses, pour the occasional drink when I'm not around."

A job was what Alfred had been worrying about the most. And a job had presented itself to him. He didn't know whether to be happy or suspicious. He went with happy, and grinned at his knew colleague. "Sure. When do I start?"

His acceptance had obviously been expected. "You can have this evening off, just to become familiarised with this blasted town- it takes a few weeks, but soon you'll be as grey and British as everyone else." Francis grinned. "Now then, about that room; the accommodation is on the street after this one, it's a large building, hard to miss, called Mama Vargas. They'll see to it that you have a hot meal, a warm bed, and slightly more irritating than pleasant company."

Alfred nodded. "Thanks, it's really… um…" He waved an arm around. "…weird, being in England. Everything's odd, so I guess this is going to take some getting used to."

Francis patted his shoulder, and whisked his now empty glass of brandy away. "And so you shall, _mon ami nouveau_, I can assure you." He tapped the surface of the bar. "Another?"

He knew that if he started drinking, he wouldn't stop until he passed out, so he shook his head politely. "No, I'll save that for tomorrow." He picked up his case and stood up, much to Francis' dismay. "I best go to my room and unpack my things, otherwise they'll never be tidied away." Alfred knew for a fact that that was a big lie; the contents of his case would sooner end up strewn on the floor than tucked neatly in a cupboard.

"As you wish." Francis waved him off as he left the pub. "_Au revoir!"_

Alfred walked down the street, back down the way he came, to the end of the street where Francis had said another street joined on. It took several moments of looking around in confusion before he found the street, and saw in the vague distance a large building with all kinds of flags and signs around it. That must be it.

It was dark for a November evening, it was only about four in the afternoon, and already the air was bluish black and the street was dotted with less and less people. He walked onwards, awfully conscious of how loud his footsteps were, and the crunch every time he trod on a fallen leaf. English nights were not filled with the chirp of cicadas, nor were the houses filled with light as the residents continued their ministrations throughout the night. Every house seemed quiet, reserved, and Alfred didn't like that. Did the British not have any fun?

Then, as if by some cruel magician's trick, a group of men appeared from around the corner. The voices sounded familiar, and he realised with a jolt that they were the men who had been so vulgarly shouting at him in the first pub he had entered. He began to walk faster, crossing the street to the other side so they weren't walking directly towards him, but there was no way he could stop them from spotting him.

"Look!" One of them called. "It's the Yank!"

"Where yah goin' Yank? Swimmin' back to 'merica already?"

The calls and voices all blended into one, and Alfred couldn't help but feel nervous. Although he wasn't short, and he definitely wasn't weedy, there was no way he could stand up to so many men and come out relatively bruise-free. It was something his father could have done, but not himself. He didn't have half the bravery his father had.

Alfred turned around, regardless of the notion that he was going to end up very lost very soon, and began to walk away from the group at a speedy sort of pace. His heart had begun to hammer in his chest, and he couldn't believe what he was doing. Alfred F. Jones, running away from a fight? It was not something he wanted to dwell on, but he had to do it. He had to survive at least his first night in Britain unscathed, otherwise getting to work for Francis tomorrow would be an unnecessarily difficult chore.

"Turnin' around, Yank?"

"Scared of a fight?"

He didn't like being called scared, he never had, but he continued walking, nearly breaking into a jog at times. He could hear their footfalls getting louder and louder, their shouts and calls all the more aggressive. He couldn't help it, and broke into a run just as he felt a hand swipe his back, and he took off down the street, heart thudding frantically in his chest.

Apparently this was highly amusing, as the his pursuers burst into bouts of hysterical laughter, running after him like a cat chases a mouse. Alfred was beginning to think they weren't going to stop until they all got to kick him.

Apparently he was wrong.

The light had faded even more, and Alfred could barely see where he was going as he blundered down the street. His hands hit a gate, and he collided into a wall, the breath flying out of him with a cry of pain. Panicking, he opened the gate and-

The house loomed over him like a malevolent god contemplating a sinful servant.

He backpedalled with a cry, eyes flying over the three-story building, black against the night sky. There were no lights in its windows, yet Alfred knew there was someone inside. Could it be haunted? No, that thought didn't bear thinking about.

Although, whatever was in that awfully devilish looking house, his pursuers didn't like it.

They had all stopped, and were staring at Alfred with a mixture of awe and pure fear. Several of them had begun to run away already, but a few were still standing there. Alfred felt a cold feeling drop into his chest. There was something wrong with that house, and everyone knew it except him.

The panic, the fear, the sheer _terror _at being caught and beaten up was too much, and Alfred hit the ground with a muffled thump.

The last words he heard before he passed out for at least two hours was the jeers of the men as they returned to their homes.

"I hope Kirkland carves out yer heart, filthy Yank!"

_Please review this chapter, tell me what you thought"_


	3. Chapter 3

_Thank you to the people who reviewed the previous chapter!_

_I apologise if there are any stupid mistakes in my spelling or grammar, I type too fast :/_

_I hope you enjoy this chapter, sorry if; once again, it does not contain as much USUK action as you would have liked. _

_Feel free to leave a review, they really help!_

As soon as Alfred regained consciousness and the use of his common sense, he ran as fast as he could back up the street to the accommodation Francis had arranged for him. Running all that way in the near-darkness had been hard, but some windows were lit with lamps, so he was able to find his way to his destination without getting completely lost or walking into another haunted house. The men who had been chasing him were long gone, and the air was thick with silence. Alfred hated silence; it left too much to the imagination, but was too afraid of attracting any attention to himself to whistle.

His suitcase, now battered and missing its label, was clamped tightly in his left hand, while his other hand rifled in his trouser pocket for some money. He swore he had taken a few coins from his case out in order to pay for extra expenses, but now there seemed to be nothing. Maybe, when he had been unconscious, the men had regained their rowdy confidence and had taken it, along with some of his other valuable belongings. Maybe, he thought with dread, it had been the person in the house. The _ghost_, waiting to snatch him up and-

No. He couldn't think like that. Thinking that house was haunted was not going to get him anywhere tonight. He could already almost feel ghostly eyes training on him as he walked up to Mama Vargas, could hear the murmur of long-dead voices as they reached for him with spidery limbs-

He was doing it again.

Pale and shaken, still looking around nervously in case anyone was to sneak up behind him and give him a fright, Alfred raised his hand, and knocked twice on the door. While he waited for the door to be opened, possibly by an irritable and fed-up landlady, as he was assuming the owner was indeed called Mama Vargas, he took a closer look at the building. It was long, but low, painted a sort of off-yellow colour, if such a colour existed. The wooden hand-painted sign was faded with age, and little flecks of paint had chipped off, making some of the words hard to read. A number of flags flew from the balcony railings; two Italian flags, a flag with a sort of double-headed eagle on it, a Spanish flag and a flag which Alfred was pretty sure was German. It was odd that they were there, and even odder that Alfred had actually managed to remember that.

He did not have time to think about what country the flag with the two-headed eagle may have represented, as the door was flung open, not by a tall maid-sort of woman, but by a young man.

Alfred couldn't help but jump in surprise, and stare with a slightly blank expression at the man who had opened the door, who was currently crossing his arms and scowling at him like he was some tramp off the street. If Alfred had looked at himself and seen his own mud-covered suit and shoes from where he had fallen by the house, and his considerably more unkempt hair, he would have thought himself a little bit of a tramp.

"Want something?" The man's voice was blunt, demanding. He had an accent that wasn't English, but it wasn't like Francis', it sounded a little more melodic, but considerably pissed.

Alfred tried not to show his surprise at the way he had been addressed. He had booked a room after all. "Uh, yeah, I booked a room today?"

The man was tapping his finger impatiently on his arm, his amber eyes flicking over Alfred. His hair was dark brown, his skin was tanned, and he had a sort of wild curl on his head that stuck out in an odd manner. He looked very strange, Alfred wondered if he had come to the right place, or if this was some massive prank.

"So, you booked a room," He sounded bored out of his mind, like the idea of a potential customer made him tired. "Would you like me to assemble it here, or do you want to come inside and do something for yourself?"

His tone wasn't particularly pleasant, but Alfred didn't let that bother him. He was probably a servant, a butler or something, and Alfred would be shown to the boss in next to no time. "Um, sure, do I need to sign for it?"

"Are you fucking stupid, American?" The man's arms uncrossed, and Alfred could see a slight smirk on his face. Why did everyone know he was American? Was it obvious or something? "I's half expecting you not to be able to write."

"Of course I can write, I went to school." The words came out before he could stop himself. "Should I, come in then."

"Well, unless you're fucking expecting me to-"

"_Fratello!_ Why didn't you tell me he was here?" A similarly accented voice rang from the hall behind the man, and he was elbowed out of the way by a slightly lighter-haired lookalike. The only difference was that the wild curl on _his _head faced the opposite direction, and bounced wildly as he snapped in a different language to his companion. The argument went on for at least a minute, until the lighter haired one turned to Alfred.

"I am sorry for my brother's rudeness," Ah, so they were related, that was why they looked so similar. The man's eyes were bright, a little like a child's, and he rocked back and forth on his heels as he spoke. "He doesn't like waking up from his nap to answer the door."

_Who has a nap at six in the evening?_ Alfred was starting to find these two men _very _strange indeed, from their odd hair curls to their completely opposite personalities. "Ah, I see." He said somewhat meekly, unsure as to whether the happier man would burst into anger if he said something wrong.

"Plus, his 'friend' didn't come to see him today, so-"

"Shut up, Feliciano," Feliciano's brother slapped his arm in a manner that was definitely less than playful. "If that bastard was anything like a friend he'd have enough sense to leave me alone."

Feliciano acted like he hadn't felt that slap one bit. "Anyway, I apologise for his behaviour, it's normal for him to be an ass," He got another slap for that, seemed to lose his train of thought, then opened his mouth to speak again. "Ah, your room!" He took Alfred by the arm and practically led him upstairs, down a narrow hall, and halted by the front of a white-painted door. "No need to sign, just go in and make yourself comfortable, okay?"

Alfred was still too overcome with complete bafflement to object to anything, and proceeded to thank Feliciano and his brother several times before entering the room, dumping his case, and flopping down onto the bed. The springs groaned underneath him, and there was a particularly nasty one that jabbed into his back, but he didn't care. He'd done it. He'd found a place to stay, a few people that weren't _complete _strangers, and a job to boot. For the first time since he had arrived in England, he was feeling pretty pleased with himself.

His fingers fumbled with the top button of his shirt, but he pulled it free eventually, and some of the tightness in his chest lifted. He knew damn well why his chest had been tight in the first place, and it had been nothing to do with the shirt. But of course, Alfred F. Jones would never admit to being scared, not even to himself.

He wouldn't bother with getting undressed and changed into some kind of night wear, he would just get changed when morning came so he went to work a little fresher than the day before. It wouldn't matter too much though; he was American, and apparently according to the people he had met that day, English people did not expect very much of Americans. Which was fine by him, it meant he wouldn't have to preen himself as vigorously in order to look presentable.

That day, he had met; a group of Englishmen who definitely weren't as gentlemanly as he had expected them to be, a Frenchman who was a little overly friendly, and two men of an unknown nationality that didn't seem to get on too well. Was this what the whole of England was like? So far, the only people who were nice were the people who weren't English. He'd find out tomorrow, for now he just needed to sleep.

He folded his arms across his chest and twisted around so he lay on his side, so he was facing the plainly painted wall the bed was pushed up against. He stared at it for a few seconds before his eyes closed, and his face slackened as he immediately fell asleep. If there was one thing he was good at, it was falling asleep quickly, regardless of his location and/or the day's events.

Although, it seemed that night that the day's events were coming back to haunt him.

In a very, _haunting_, manner.

After a night filled with restless tossing and turning, interspersed with images of a demonic house, Alfred awoke to the smell of cooking. For a few long, confused moments, he thought he was back on the ship, and sat up to feel the bed lurching beneath him as it had during the trip. However, when his eyes had adjusted to the watery sunlight streaming through the gaps in the curtains, he remembered once more that he was indeed in England. The notion made him groan and fall back onto the bed; he would have rather been back on that boat than where he was now. England was too difficult to understand, too odd it it's ways; Alfred had much preferred the ship. If he ever earned enough money, he would just live on a boat his entire life.

Thoughts can be a little deluded upon waking up, as were Alfred's current though processes. He was torn between getting up and going to explore the hotel a bit, and just lying there until someone came to turf him out. Or if room service came to deliver him food. Yes, food would be good.

Alfred's stomach growled, and he sat up once more, pushing his tousled hair back from his face. The need for food outweighed the need for extra rest and time to compose himself, and by the looks of the room he was sleeping in, there wasn't such a thing as room service.

He had been much too tired and mentally preoccupied to look at the room properly the night before, but now as he looked around it with squinting eyes, he saw that it wasn't that bad. The bed was reasonably large- his feet didn't stick off the end as they had done on the bed on the steam ship- and the room was a decent size too. There was a washbasin in the corner, a small chest of drawers that he could put his clothes in if he had happened to be a particularly tidy person, and a vanity table if the residing guest was female. It wasn't a bad room, there were no ceramic bathtubs or crystal chandeliers, but it was a good room nonetheless. Not that he would be spending much time in it, he wanted to know as much about England as he could.

He stumbled to his feet and rubbed his eyes, grunting as he felt his back click. He hadn't minded the wonky spring last night, but now he could feel where the metal had pressed into his side during the night. Trying not to aggravate the resulting cramp, he knelt and opened his suitcase.

There were some other folded shirts, no waistcoats, pairs of trousers, underwear, and a great pile of socks that had been thrown in as an afterthought. He hadn't bothered to think about the packing when he had been packing it, but now he was starting to understand why people took so much time when preparing for a journey. Especially a journey he wasn't planning on returning from for a long time.

Once dressed, and as composed as he could bother to be, Alfred opened the door to his room and shuffled down the corridor. He had been alarmed to find that there was no actual lock on the door, so anyone could walk in when they wished- this disturbed Alfred a little, what if someone came in when he was dressing? He hoped people in the hotel would have the decency to knock.

Now that he had had a good-ish night's sleep and he wasn't running away from murderers and haunted houses, he was quite looking forward to greeting the owners of Mama Vargas. He had assumed the men from yesterday had been the servants, just there to escort him in, and that there would be a welcoming woman with open arms and a good taste for cooking to full induct him into life as a lodger in England.

Making his way along the corridor and down the stairs, Alfred wondered why he couldn't hear any other guests waking up. He didn't have a watch, he couldn't afford one, so he told the time by how light it was. Seeing as it was winter, he often got mixed up or surprised when he realised the time, but he'd never had to be punctual for anything in his life, so knowing the time to the exact second had never been much of a problem.

He reached the bottom of the stairs and looked around for a common room perhaps, or a dining room. Instead, he found a large kitchen, and sat at an enormous table were the two men he had met yesterday. The table itself had probably been installed then the house built around it, as it really was tremendously large. It made the two figures slumped over their food look smaller than they really were.

"Good morning, Mr Jones! Did you sleep well?" Feliciano, who he recalled was the lighter haired of the two, bounced to his feet and rushed over to him. The table was covered in pots and pans of a variety of sorts, and Alfred hoped he wouldn't have to wait for his food. Not being impatient or anything; he really was hungry.

Alfred decided being positive would avoid the most questions. "Yeah, the room's great." 

Feliciano slapped his arm in a less vehement way than his brother had done to him. "Ah, don't be silly, the room is all that we can afford. The farmhouses of Italy have great rooms, not a place like this." Despite his somewhat grave words, he still sounded bright. Alfred was starting to wonder if he ever felt any emotion other than pure joy.

"I hardly wanted to say the room was bad though." Alfred liked Feliciano. He made talking to a complete stranger in a completely strange country with a strange accent and strange relatives sound completely normal.

"You are a gentleman, yes?" He beamed. "Not even English, but you say everything is great just to make people happy." He looked so overjoyed with that notion that Alfred was starting to think he was drunk.

"You're welcome. I-, uh, would there be any chance of breakfast?" Alfred didn't want to sound rude, but he was _very _hungry now.

The brother that was still sat at the table snorted and said something Alfred didn't quite catch, but Feliciano laughed. "Of course! I made pasta for breakfast! You can have this sauce, this one is ravioli…" He began a description of every meal on the table as Alfred sat down, and seemed to forsake his recital as he heaped food onto Alfred's plate for him. Alfred wasn't one to complain though; the food looked delicious.

When Feliciano had stopped talking, and had sat next to Alfred with wide eyes, Alfred started to eat. It was the most wonderful thing he had ever tasted. He had no idea where Feliciano was from, but wherever it was, he wanted to visit it. He cleared the plate in not much time at all, and grinned at Feliciano. "That was amazing, your cooks must be very talented indeed." He said, laying his cutlery neatly by his now cleared plate.

The dark haired brother looked furious, but Feliciano just laughed again. It wasn't a giggle, he wasn't that girly, but it was hardly a laugh Alfred would call masculine. "Psh, who needs cooks when you are from Italy, the country of cooking itself!" He pointed at his brother. "Lovino is just pissed because he does not like people who assume things."

Lovino, who Alfred could now stop calling the dark-haired-brother, ignored Feliciano and left the table, muttering to himself in Italian. Ah, they were both Italian. That answered a lot of questions.

"I see," Alfred said, feeling much better now he had eaten. "Is he always so grumpy?"

Feliciano nodded. "Yeah, sometimes he's worse. Mama always used to say he was like my father, and that I was like my grandpa." It was odd, listening to a grown man talk about his family like he was seven years old, but happy people were usually the ones who didn't think too much about things.

Alfred was curious now. "Always… used to say?"

Feliciano nodded, without a shred of sadness. "Mama left us last year, just before the summer. She told us to look after the place for her until someone new took it over, but no-one ever has."

Alfred raised his eyebrows. "So, you run this, you and your brother?"

"Yes, it's not that bad. We get the occasional customer, like you, and we look after them until they decide to move on." The Italian grinned as if lack of customers wasn't a problem at all. "It's nice, just me and Lovi in here, until Lovi's 'friend' comes to see him then he tells me to get lost." He chuckled.

"His… 'friend'?" Now Alfred had asked one question, the next one followed almost instantly.

Feliciano gave him a wink. "I mustn't tell him I told you, he doesn't like it when I tell people. He knows this man that-"

"FELICIANO!" Roared a voice from upstairs. "IF YOU BREAK THE STOVE, YOU NEED TO FUCKING TELL ME!"

Feliciano shrank in his chair and gave Alfred a sheepish look. A noise escaped his mouth, a sort of 'Ve-' noise which was half vague and half completely unsure about what he was meant to be doing. Alfred watched him as he rose from the table, and sort of drifted upstairs like a lost puppy. Alfred hoped Lovino wouldn't shout at him too much, he didn't look like the type that took being shouted at very well.

Now that he had eaten and found out a little bit more about his hosts, he felt more than confident about going to meet Francis again at the Marie Antoinette. He didn't know when he shift was supposed to start, or if it had a set time at all, but it was better to turn up early than to turn up late and have his employer shout at him.

He had nothing to bring to his new workplace other than himself, so he left Mama Vargas with a shout to the brothers that he was leaving, and started to walk leisurely down the street to the pub.

The street looked different compared to the day before, mainly because it was slightly lighter and he wasn't being chased. The ground was cobbled, and the houses were neatly arranged and were almost identical, save Mama Vargas, which stuck out like a flag-adorned, Italian sore thumb. There were a few people about, who were walking along in the same manner in which Alfred was, and they appeared to all be talking about the weather. He looked up; the grey clouds didn't seem particularly special, but it was just everything he heard from the conversations people were having as he walked past them.

His eyes were fixed on the small, similar houses, until, almost like out of a fairy-tale, the strange house from yesterday appeared from around a corner. Alfred felt a jolt of cold shoot through him, and he crossed the street to walk on the other side. Now that it was daytime he felt obliged to whistle, and he repeated the American national anthem a total of six times before the house had disappeared from sight. There was something morbid about that house, he could feel it, and he knew that someone lived in there. He promised himself to ask Francis about it when he arrived at the Marie Antoinette.

Perhaps he was a murderer, maybe they were a vampire, or could he be a criminal? Alfred had no idea who or what was living in that house, but it had to be bad if all those men had scarpered as soon as he had blundered through the gate. He remembered the men had shouted a name at him yesterday, but he couldn't quite remember it. The word swam at the back of his mind, hidden by the laughing faces of the jeering men and the house that had blotted out the moon like it was the ghost itself. If ghosts existed, of course. Which they didn't. Of course they didn't.

Alfred's legs carried him to the Marie Antoinette faster than he had expected, and he hovered uncertainly by the door before going in. What if he had just imagined what had happened yesterday? What if he had misunderstood, and the Frenchman was actually meaning something else? He tried not to worry, as he pushed open the door and stepped inside the pub.

Thus his first day of work began.

And the first day he heard about Arthur.

_Please review this chapter, it really helps!_


	4. Chapter 4

_I apologise if the name change has been an issue; someone thought it was a great idea to tell everyone my FF name, so I had to change it to avoid certain persons finding my account which would not have been great :/_

_This fanfiction will definitely be updated on Tuesdays, simply because I have limited time to update and it's nice and organised which makes me happy :D_

_Thank you once more for your reviews, especially FORDGE, I enjoy reading your reviews very much ^-^_

_I'm getting back into writing long chapters, so sorry if, once again, nothing much happens. _

_Please review this chapter if there's anything you want me to change/improve/if there are any ideas you want me to add._

_If you haven't already, please check out my other fanfiction!_

"You're cleaning the glass wrong, if you keep doing that you'll chip it." Francis quipped for the fifth time that hour, tapping his shoulder to get his attention.

Alfred nearly slammed the glass in question onto the bar as he sighed again. "I don't see what _I'm _doing the wrong, the glass won't get damn clean."

Francis, his hair tied back in a ponytail so strands of hair didn't keep flopping into his eyes, took the glass and cloth off him and started cleaning it in a slightly more brisk fashion. "That's because, Alfred, you clean like an old woman with no fingers."

"Well that's not my fault!" Alfred crossed his arms and scowled. "I've never had to clean a glass before."

Alfred's first day at work, as implied, was not going too well. He had woken up early, which had been quite good for him, and Feliciano had patted his shoulder and wished him well as he had left Mama Vargas, whereas Lovino had hurled insults at him and nearly upended a dish of pasta onto Alfred's head. He didn't really know why, the Italian seemed to have a personal vendetta against him. Maybe it was due to the fact that he had snored incessantly that night, or perhaps because he ate more than twice the amount the smaller men did in one sitting. He didn't know; neither of those reasons seemed to be anything one would get bothered about, maybe it was just an Italian thing. When he had arrived at the Marie Antoinette, expecting to be hit with piles of coins as soon as he took his coat off and went to find Francis, he had been presented with a glass and a cloth and told to clean it.

For the past hour and a half, Francis had been calmly coaching him through each step, pausing occasionally for a few moments to smack his hand against his forehead and sigh. Alfred was more incompetent than his previous employee, which was definitely saying something. Alfred didn't seem to understand the concept of actually having to put effort into cleaning something, so he'd just been vaguely swilling the cloth around the glass, expecting the glass to be shining.

Francis placed the now cleaned glass on the surface of the bar and put his hands on his hips. "There. That's how you clean a glass, Monsieur I Have Never Cleaned Anything In My Entire Life." He looked up with a smug expression, which Alfred just returned with a confused look.

"So, I have to do that to just that glass?" Alfred had picked up the cloth again, and was wringing it between his hands in confusion. He didn't like this whole cleaning business; he wanted to do something interesting like pour drinks or count the money, which was what he had thought he was going to be doing.

Francis wanted to hit his head on the bar, but he was afraid of making his hair fall out of the ponytail. "Every glass," He said lamely, after trying for a few moments to say something a little more enthusiastic or encouraging. "You have to do it with every glass."

To Alfred, that had been more shocking than the notion of actually having a job, and he surveyed the tables already filled with people drinking. "What?" His voice dragged out into a whine, and he slapped the cloth down onto the bar, pulling a face. He didn't want to clean _every _glass, that would take him years! "Why?"

Francis had stopped looking so exasperated, and was just smirking, running his fingers over his stubbly beard. "You have to clean every glass, every day, for however long I decide to employ you. And," He looked at the grandfather clock that had been shoved into the farthest corner of the pub so drunkards wouldn't throw up on it. "You should have started about half an hour ago."

Alfred grumbled under his breath and grabbed the glass again, running the cloth over it as if he actually knew what he was doing. "Fine." He was not very happy with how this job was revealing itself. He would have wrinkled old woman's hands from cleaning in no time at all, that certainly wasn't going to help him in his campaign to actually get the opposite gender to notice him. "How do I get the glasses from the tables?"

Francis, who had turned away for that final part of Alfred's complaint, faced him and threw a tray at his chest. "There, collect them with that, but be careful not to drop them."

With that, Francis left the bar and flounced over to talk to some men who had just walked in, and immediately added to their rowdy conversation. Alfred heard a number of languages fill the air, but he was too annoyed to care.

Grabbing the tray and slipping through the little door that separated the back of the bar from the rest of the pub, he found the nearest abandoned table and began seizing the glasses, placing them on the tray which he balanced on his other hand, much like a waiter. Once the tray was full, and his arm was complaining, he returned to the bar where he set all the glasses out. His mind felt fuzzy, like he wasn't really there, and he grabbed the cloth once more to try and make an effort. He could see Francis watching him from where he was sat, laughing with the other men sat at his table about something. He really hoped they weren't laughing at him.

There was something bugging him at the back of his mind, something that just made him want to throw all those glasses on the floor and ask someone about it. Who lived in that terrifying house? Why was it so terrifying? Francis seemed like the type of person who would know about things like that, so he made a note to ask him about it when he had done his job. The questions felt like trapped butterflies, pressing at his throat, wanting to fly out of his mouth and earn him yet more scorn from Francis. He wasn't good at understanding how people were feeling, but he knew enough to know that Francis wasn't exactly over the moon with him. He hoped fervently that he wouldn't drop a glass and end his career before the day was over. He needed this money badly; otherwise he would just end up living on the street as he had done back-

_Home._

No. America was not his home anymore. He belonged here, in rainy, grey England, in the house with the strange Italians. There was nothing for him in America, nothing to say that he had ever lived there at all. America was as much of a home to him as land was to a fish. A sinking sort of weight dropped in his chest at that; America was _not _his home, he was never going-

_Back._

Of course he could never go back, that boat journey had been horrendous! Despite his fear of the ocean, and that his weak sea legs couldn't handle anything above a rowing boat, returning to America was a prospect he often considered. When he had grown rich on whatever England had to offer, had gotten himself a job and a house and maybe even a wife, he _could _return to America. Returning there would be a lot easier without the third article, as Alfred knew from the relationships of his previous friends, but he guessed it would be nice to have someone to share a home with other than two Italian brothers who was completely emotionally opposite from each other.

He made it through a couple of rounds of glasses, stacking the clean ones neatly by the beer taps after going out to collect empty glasses from empty tables, before turning to look at where Francis was sat. He only saw the other two men he had been talking to, and as he went back to cleaning the glasses, he felt a tap on his shoulder that almost made him drop the glass he was holding.

"Are you done ignoring me?" Francis crossed his arms but didn't look angry at him. Which was good, Alfred thought, as he tried to catch his breath. He hadn't been _scared _by Francis, no, not at all, Alfred F. Jones never got scared.

"Wha-" Alfred thought about asking him what he wanted, then decided that probably wasn't the best thing to say to his new and already annoyed employer. "Sorry, I didn't notice you."

Francis shook his head and laughed. "Don't look so scared, I'm not going to be angry at you for ignoring me, Antonio does that all the time." He pointed at the shorter of the two men sat at the table Francis had been sat at, rolling his eyes as the man shot him a cheerily offensive gesture. The Frenchman's eyes ran over the somewhat wonkily stacked glasses. "You cleaned all the glasses," Francis mused. "I'm impressed."

Alfred didn't know whether the Frenchman was being sarcastic or not, but he smiled anyway. "Thanks." He muttered, still mulling that question in his head. Over and over, again and again, he asked himself that question. Who lives in the house? Who lives in the house? Who lives in the-

"House?" Francis asked incredulously, leaning himself against the bar and frowning at Alfred.

Alfred jumped, and looked just as confused as Francis did. "What?" He knew he wasn't coming off as much of an intellectual might, and Francis probably knew that. It could have been the way he had been coached through cleaning the glasses, or the fact that Francis spoke slowly to him, but Alfred was beginning to think he was being _patronised_.

Francis, contrary to popular (as in his two friends') belief, was actually able not to laugh at someone else's stupidity. He often found the idea of people slipping up on their speech hilarious, and, call him a filthy, lying hypocrite, he found accents funny. "You just asked me the same question twice; Who lives in the house?" He said, tapping his fingers on the surface of the bar. "What house?"

Some people, when caught speaking their thoughts, would have just mumbled and continued working, but Alfred soldiered on in a way that was almost socially painful. "_The_ house, y'know, the one on the corner with the black windows and the tall chimneys and that door knocker that looks like a-" He stopped. "You know which one I mean, right?"

Francis went quite quiet for a moment, which Alfred understood from the past two days was unusual for him, and he started running his hand over his beard again. Alfred found it odd; it was like he was checking that the beard was still there, or if it had grown in the past five minutes. Alfred hoped he wasn't _proud _of it; it was quite a pitiful little straggle of manliness, and Alfred then found himself wondering how he would look with a beard. Dashingly handsome, of course, as he always did.

"That house," Francis said, a few notches down from his usual volume. "Should have been knocked down twenty five years ago."

Alfred suddenly couldn't stop the questions from bursting forth, as if he was a dam that had just given way to a flood. "Why? Who lives in there? Is it a vampire? Or a ghost? Or a _demon_?" His eyes were wide behind his glasses, and his over enthusiasm was making a couple of heads turn.

Francis shook his head, almost laughing, but something was holding him back. He looked serious, somewhat, and he was staring at the floor. "_Non_. Not a ghost, or a demon, or even a child of the night." He seemed to sigh, before he looked up at Alfred again. "A man."

He nearly exploded with more questions, but he held them in as best he could. He wouldn't want to sound _too _enthusiastic about a man in a creepy house, that would lead people to start jumping to conclusions. "A man? Is he dead?"

"No, his name is Arthur Kirkland, and he's alive." Francis said softly, so softly that Alfred almost didn't catch him- more people had entered the pub as they had been talking, and the background chatter was steadily increasing.

_Kirkland. _That was the name the men had shouted at Alfred when he had stumbled through that gate. He'd never know anyone called Arthur before, he assumed it was one of those names that no-one was ever called, one of those old ones you only ever heard of in books. _Arthur._ Alfred bet he was a little decrepit old man who just lived in his armchair all day.

"He's no alive, _amigo_, he died years ago!" The man called Antonio shouted at them both. He had obviously been listening in, and Alfred didn't like that. That meant he already knew, due to Alfred's excited questioning, that he was new to the town.

Francis shot an exasperated look to no-one in particular and shook his head. "You're wrong, as you always are, Antonio." The man sat next to Antonio seemed to find this hilarious, and burst into hysterical high-pitched laugher, slamming his glass of beer against the table. "Kirkland lives."

"Then how come you never see him outside, eh?" Antonio had stood up, and walked over to Alfred and Francis, leaning on the other side of the bar. "Because he is _muerto_."

"I 'eard he takes bodies from the graveyard and bakes 'em into his bread!" An unidentified voice shouted from the back. More voices joined in, but for once he didn't join in. He just listened, intrigued.

"Don't be stupid, who does that? _I _heard he's set up an opium trade, and hides it in trapdoors underneath his house."

"Aiyah, you English know nothing. He is a mad, feral man, and his father chains him to the furniture to stop him from attacking the town."

"No, what I heard was that he _totally _killed his father then ate his _liver._" Another voice called. Soon the room had filled with the sounds of rumours and accusations and even threats at one another, and Alfred turned to Francis, confused.

"Is this man really that bad?" He asked, turning away from the pub so he faced the back of the bar. He felt slightly sick, listening to all those people badmouth someone who Alfred still wasn't sure existed, it reminded him of his previous life, which he had been trying hard not to think about.

Francis looked like he was about to say something different, but changed his mind at the last minute. "He is as bad as you believe him to be."

That made no sense to Alfred. He was a man of fixed morals- there were actions that were good, and then there were actions that were not so good. He didn't understand this whole believing business, because surely this Kirkland fellow was either good or bad. He had either killed his father and eaten his liver, or he hadn't, and was really just some poor old man who was too mad to come outside. He didn't want to have an opinion on this man; he just wanted to know what he had done, and what he hadn't done. But the possibilities were too great, and he eventually just decided to stop thinking about it and to continue working. Hopefully he could pick up some more information over the course of the night, but his questions so far had been answered. Francis' vague answer had not been what he was hoping for, but what did he expect? He was the outsider, the new guy, and he was going to have to work hard at worming his way into this society in order to find out more.

Once Alfred was back to cleaning glasses, and the chatter had died down, Francis came back up to him and leaned himself against the bar. His two loud friends had left some time ago, with claims that they were going to visit people more important than Francis, but Francis hadn't seemed fazed by their rudeness. Surely friends didn't talk to each other like that. He wanted to ask Francis who they were and why they talked to him like that, but he thought he had asked Francis enough questions for the day.

Alfred had no idea that it was Francis' turn to ask the questions.

"Tell me, _mon ami_, what is America like?" Francis asked him, just as he had returned with another tray full of glasses.

Once Alfred had set the glasses down, and was cleaning them as he had been instructed, he answered. "Uh, it's hot, I guess, hotter than here, and we grow a lot of cotton." No, not _we, they_. He was not one of them, not any more.

Francis nodded and smiled. "I see, where did you live in America?"

Alfred shrugged. "Nowhere much, just a little town in the middle of the state, nothing really worth talking about." And nothing he _wanted _to talk about, not at all.

"It must be odd, coming to such a large town, _oui_?" Alfred nodded, and Francis smiled wistfully. "I've always wanted to go to Canada, do you know what it's like there?"

Alfred snorted. "What? Canada? Nothing ever happens in Canada, it's all cold and there's bears and people speak funny."

"Canada is such a romantic place." Francis mused, as if he hadn't heard Alfred's outburst at all. "Almost as romantic as Paris, don't you think?"

Alfred, who had never in his life thought of a place as being _romantic_, and had never been to Paris in his life, decided he wouldn't disagree with the Frenchman's wistful comments. "Yeah, I guess." He struggled desperately at something which could continue the conversation. "Is England a romantic place?"

Francis nearly doubled over laughing. "Is _England _romantic?" He exclaimed, patting Alfred heavily on the shoulder. "My dear American, England is further away from romantic as my Spaniard friend is. England is much too" He waved a hand around and pulled a face. "_Rainy._ You see, when it rains in Paris, the streets shine and the ladies wear their fur coats and beautiful hats, it is beautiful. In _England_, when the streets run brown with dirt and the ladies run away and hide in their little homes, one can only feel pity for the country. There is nothing romantic about England."

Alfred could see England as being _unappealing_, maybe a little disappointing to someone who had always dreamed about going there, but he wouldn't go as far to say that it was _unromantic._ He didn't really know what romance was, or if a place had or lacked any, but he had to agree with Francis. England really was a bit rainy and grey.

"Yeah, I guess not." Alfred started to think about his home town back in America. "America's not that romantic either."

Francis laughed at that. "Of course it isn't, _mon ami_, America was colonised by the British."

Alfred's eyes widened. "Really? The Brits came and invaded us?"

Francis shook his head, still laughing. "_Non_, Alfred, it doesn't matter."

In all twenty two years in which Alfred had lived in America, he had never really considered how people turned up in his country. He knew it had been a colony of the British Empire once, and they had become independent from them in the 1700s, but, apart from that, he didn't really know about the history of his country. It wasn't something the people in the town talked about a lot; their conversations were always about what Mrs Smith was wearing that day, or whether the bank _had _been robbed, or if the Red Indians had pitched camp near their town and were preparing to invade. If Alfred had realised how often he spoke in an equally moronic way he would have been less criticising.

Alfred shrugged, he had found out all he had wanted to already, and leaned against the bar to face Francis. "What time to you let me off?"

"Eager to leave already?" Francis' light tone immediately flew straight over Alfred's head, and he stepped back, shaking his head. "Ah, don't look so scared, I was only 'aving a joke, _oui?_ It is eight thirty now; you can leave at nine. I have another new employee who's going to do the night shifts." Francis sighed in an almost dreamy way, pulling his hair out of its ponytail and twirling a strand around his finger. "He's from Canada, you know, I wonder if he speaks French…"

And so Alfred left Francis to his wistful musing, resting his elbows against the bar and sighing. The work, despite his complaining and his reluctance to do it, wasn't really that bad, and he was looking forward to tomorrow. Mostly so he could ask Francis more about that Kirkland guy, and so he could meet some more of his friends. He hoped Francis had some lady friends, which he assumed he did for such a well- coiffured man, and hoped that he would become a good enough friend to be allowed on outings with these lady friends. Alfred didn't want to seem desperate, but a little female attention wouldn't do him any harm.

Surveying the array of people- mostly men- sat at the tables and leaning against the walls, Alfred began to notice their differences a little more closely. One man's hair was cropped just above his shoulders, and it swished violently as he shook his fist at a brown haired man who sat ramrod straight, sipping daintily at his glass of water. A number of different languages flew through the air; some harsh, some soft, and all of them were completely unknown to Alfred. A couple of the men were already onto their fourth drink, and he swore that one tall fellow who had been sat in the corner for at least three hours was on his fifth bottle of vodka. He hoped the man didn't pass out at his table; he looked like he would take a lot of work to carry away.

Most of the men were sat alone, just nursing their beers or whatever they were drinking and staring moodily at the surface of their table. They were all sat in their own little silences, staring at things neither Alfred nor anyone else could see. He felt sorry for them; they had to have a reason to be sat alone like that, shouldn't they? Yeah, just like Alfred had a reason to move to England. No, he needed to stop thinking about that, those things happened in the past. There was nothing about his past life that needed to be mentioned, not to Francis, not to Feliciano, not to anyone.

His curiosity was faster than his rationality. "Francis, why are there so many men just sat by themselves?"

Francis stopped his wistful French and turned to answer Alfred, checking his watch in the process. It was a slim gold watch, with a polished glass face, and Alfred immediately felt shallow jealousy spike inside him. He'd always wanted a proper watch like that; he wondered if Francis had been rich enough to afford one, or if it had been given to him, by a lady, perhaps.

"It is almost nine," He said quietly, so the rest of the pub couldn't hear him. "After nine o'clock the rowdy drinkers come in and kick up a fuss. Now is the time for the peaceful drinkers, the ones who have things to think about, or things to do." Francis pointed at the blonde man who had been so violently shaking his fist earlier, who was now scrawling on a piece of paper. "Vash, over there, comes in here every day and sorts his finances. He spends so long looking through his documents, dividing everything up, but when it comes to spending he's cheaper than dirt!"

Francis looked beside himself with glee about telling Alfred all these things, and Alfred wondered if he had an issue with keeping information to himself. He hoped not, otherwise Alfred was going to have to be careful with what he told the Frenchman. "Oh, for any reason?"

The Frenchman shrugged. "Who knows? The Swiss are funny people, especially Vash. Although, his sister is not what I would call _cheap_, or _dirt._" Francis' eyes twinkled, and Alfred couldn't help but wonder if Francis actually _had _a partner. It had seemed likely at the start; a young French man had to have a young French wife to go home to every night, but now it seemed slightly less likely.

"So does that mean sh-" Alfred was about to ask more about the sister of this Swiss oddball, but the pub door was butted open by a group of men all dressed in the dirty grey-that-had-once-been-black uniform of a miner. Alfred knew exactly what a miner's uniform looked like, he had seen one leave his house every morning at five-thirty. Not any more though, not since-

He couldn't think about that. Not now, not after he had done so well _not _thinking about it.

Alfred tried to stop thinking, and focused on staring warily at the men who had come in. They appeared to be already rowdy despite being sober, and were pushing each other around as they all lined up against the bar, resting their dirty elbows on the varnished wood. They appeared to be arguing about something, shooting insults and objections at each other as they jostled for space and hollered for drinks. Alfred was pleased to note that they had addressed Francis, rather than him, and he shrank back to lean by the beer taps with a sigh. He didn't want to get involved with whatever they were quarrelling about.

Francis quickly took charge of the situation after giving his new employee a strange look, pouring whiskey and dealing it out to each man with inhuman speed. He chatted along with them as they spoke in loud, brash voices that reminded Alfred of the men who had chased him the previous night. Luckily, they _weren't _those men, otherwise Alfred would have scarpered as soon as he could, but he guessed those men had been miners too. From what he had learnt from home, miners were loud, dirty, blunt sort of people who would cling to you like soot clings to the inside of a chimney.

Alfred couldn't help but notice the quieter men slip out of the pub, not even finishing their drinks. Did those men not like these men? Alfred wondered if there was any sort of rivalry between working groups; maybe the miners did not get on with the quieter men? He didn't know. He hoped they wouldn't talk to him.

From what he could discern from the loud talking occasionally interspersed with an 'oh _dear_' from Francis, something had gone missing from one of the men's houses.

"An' the pocket watch was gone! I ain't seen it nowhere since."

"You sure your woman ain't got it? She'd pinch anything she could get 'er-"

"Did yer drop it down the mine shaft, like Terence dropped 'is glasses that time?"

On and on it went. Constant talk, occasionally turning into bickering, about a pocket watch or something. Well, Alfred thought they were arguing about a pocket watch, sometimes he heard accusations directed at wives, pets, and even pickaxes. Alfred was beginning to realise that not everyone in England was a well-spoken gentleman. Well, so far, _no-one _seemed like a well-spoken gentlemen; the ones who spoke best weren't even English! Everyone had spoken the same in America, so it hadn't been so much of a problem. Here, Alfred had to think twice before answering, just in case he had misheard.

Once Francis had stopped waving his hands around dramatically enough for Alfred to read his watch and see it was _way _past nine, he told the Frenchman he was leaving, then left, using the back exit that time. The shouting had started to make his head hurt, and he was glad that he was out in the cool night air for a few minutes until he came under attack by two equally loud Italians. Feliciano's loudness was nice, Lovino's not so much, but after an evening spent cleaning glasses and asking odd questions, any sort of loudness was not appreciated.

It was almost completely dark outside as Alfred strolled down the street, hands in his pockets, looking around at the houses. Occasionally he would catch a glimpse of a shadow in a window, or would hear a voice shouting something to the other residents of the house. It was nice; walking down the street at such an hour and seeing other people's lives around him, but not in a loud, public way, as it had been back home. England seemed a lot calmer than America had been, there weren't people at each other's throats all the time, and he had only been called a Yank once.

The house loomed from around the corner, and Alfred sped up a little to go and take a look at it again. Now that he knew a man _did _live in there, not some sort of monster or… ghost, he found it easier to look at the house.

"Mr Kirkland." He said. "Why don't you come out like all them other folks, huh?"

He strolled back and forth, looking up and down the house for anything that might indicate there was someone alive in there. There were no lights at the windows, no rustling sounds from inside, not even any sort of heat emitting from the house.

"Mr Kirkland?" He said, a little louder, praying there was no-one walking along the street behind him. They might think him a little mad; talking to a house like this.

After a while of silence, Alfred turned and left. Of course he hadn't been _expecting _to hear anything back; whoever was in that house wouldn't want to talk to a Yank like him. He sighed and strolled down the street to Mama Vargas, whistling all the way.

If he had been observant, he would have seen a tiny flicker of movement in the upper story window, and heard the panicked breathing of the person inside.

_Woo, the longer chapter yet! Please review this chapter, it'll make my week a little less rubbish!_


	5. Chapter 5

_Thank you to the people who reviewed, and the people who followed and favourited!_

_I am going on hiatus over the Christmas period just to get some time off everything, so I'll be back with more chapters and possibly a shiny new fanfiction at the beginning of January._

_I hope all y'alls enjoy this chapter- it's the only thing I had time for this week!_

_There will not be an update of Tin Man before the hiatus, but I shall be back with more next year!_

_Have a Happy Christmas and a fabulous New Year._

_-Twatticus_

A week had passed in something of a glass-cleaning-filled blur, and Alfred was beginning to get used to navigating himself through a typical English conversation. People would only stop to talk to him if he made a choice comment about the clouds, or if he tutted at the sun and muttered something about the light's apparent increase/decrease in intensity. There was no 'I like your dress, miss' or 'hidy doo, sir'; it was all 'oh, just _look _at that cloud' and 'I swear the sun's a little hotter today, I wonder if there'll be a heat wave'. It confused Alfred to no end, and if he slipped up and said something like 'hey, reckon it'll rain tonight?', or anything to do with rain at all, he would receive a very strange look from the gentleman or lady he was talking to. Apparently mentioning rain was bad luck or something; he wondered if the English were so superstitious about everything. He really hoped not, any more of this bad luck nonsense and he might as well start making up his own.

When breakfast arrived in the form of grilled toast and some sort of sweet preserve, Alfred decided to ask Feliciano why the English were so odd about the rain.

"Englishmen think everything is bad luck," The Italian chuckled, sitting himself beside Alfred and beaming. Over the past week, Alfred had never seen him look anything less than almost sickeningly happy. He wondered if Feliciano had _ever_ been upset about anything, he certainly didn't look it. "Well, except everything _they _do."

"Everything's an omen in England," Lovino said when Alfred asked him. "That's why they burn their food, in case the poor bland beast comes back to life."

Feliciano tapped his brother's arm. It would have been a harsh gesture if anyone else other than him had done it, but because Feliciano was still smiling, and had about as much strength as a dead beetle, it didn't have much of an effect on the other brother. "_Fratello_, it's not nice to say those sorts of things about other people's countries. They have _good _food, you know."

Lovino snorted. "Good food. _Italy_ has good food; the English just have table manners."

"They have tea as well, tea is nice!"

"Tea is _nice _if you're dying of thirst, but even then you have to…"

It quickly became a shouting match, and Alfred just sat there quietly and ate his breakfast. The two Italians bickered incessantly over everything; girls, food, some guy called Antonio who Alfred assumed Lovino detested greatly, as every time his name was mentioned the darker haired brother would swear angrily and thump his fist on the table. It was odd to say to the least, but Alfred put up with it. The brothers had welcomed him like one of their own, and even Lovino shared information with him over breakfast or dinner.

"What do you think, Alfred?" Feliciano was tapping his arm, and Alfred looked up, not realising he had zoned out.

"About what?" He asked, looking at Lovino who was glaring daggers at his sibling. Whatever they had wound up arguing about, Feliciano had obviously won.

The lighter haired Italian just laughed, and patted his shoulder good-naturedly. "I was asking you your opinion on a tomato cake!" His eyes were bright, and Alfred's brows knitted into a frown as he processed the Italian's request.

"Tomato _cake_?" He queried cautiously, watching carefully as Lovino's expression teetered towards looking murderous.

"_Si_!" Feliciano laughed. "Tomatoes work with everything, no? They work by themselves, in pasta of course, so why not cake?"

"It is stupid." Lovino growled, nursing a glass of wine he had procured from somewhere while Alfred had been thinking. "Who would want to put a tomato in a _cake_?"

Alfred decided he was never going to hear the end of this argument, and he got up and left the room, going upstairs to the bathroom. He needed to put a little more effort into his appearance for his shift, apparently Francis was bringing along a few ladies he knew, whom were single and had low enough standards to partake in several drinks with an American fresh off the boat.

He stared at his face in the blotchy mirror, ran a hand through his messy wheat blonde hair, and tried his best at straightening his collar. He looked a mess; all scruffy despite being reasonably freshly scrubbed, and he had a bleary sort of half-asleep look about him that wasn't gentlemanly to say the least. Even his glasses perched slightly wonkily on the bridge of his nose, and one of the lenses was smudged. Although his knowledge of the opposite gender was incredibly limited, and he had never even seen a woman below the petticoat, he knew that not one of them on this event Francis had organised would look twice at him. He didn't look like anyone important, or interesting, or even capable of stringing two words together. Miserable and put out, he tried to flatten his hair one last time before he skulked back to his room, flopping down onto his bed.

Working at the Marie Antoinette tired him out more than it should have. Cleaning the glasses, taking the glasses in and even pouring the drinks somehow seemed more taxing than manual labour. He had to remember to keep his collar turned the right way, as Francis chided him every time he looked less than presentable to the Frenchman's eyes. Now that the regulars had gotten a good look at him, and his mistakes were less frequent, Alfred was staring to blend in to the background of the pub. There were no disputes, no overly rowdy drinkers- everyone just sat in their seats and drank till they were broke, then made their merry way home, often dragging Francis along with them for an after party. Francis would then reappear, coincidentally just in time for the timid new Canadian employee's shift, which was when Alfred left.

The job was good, he couldn't deny that, and the money he earned he gave to the Feliciano brothers for rent, and bought himself some new shirts and waistcoats. When he had entered the tailor's in the hope of buying himself a brand new suit, but the tailor had laughed profusely when he had proffered the money he had saved after paying the rent. He had been confused, then humiliated when he realised that he had missed a nought off the price on the suit. Thus, he had been forced to buy shirts from a less quality vendor, but he had been happy to wear something other than the shirts he had brought with him across the sea.

He rubbed his eyes with his knuckles as he yawned, stretching himself out on the bed. It was about eleven in the morning, breakfast was late at Mama Vargas, and his shift didn't start until four. Francis had changed the times slightly, Alfred didn't know why, but the Frenchman claimed that if Alfred wanted to earn more money, he was going to have to work extra hours. Back home, just doing odd jobs for folks would help Alfred support the orphanage in which he lived, and donations would help them get along just fine too. But here, work seemed to be a thousand times more serious. Then again, everything in England seemed to be a thousand times more serious. Weather, food, even clothing, if something was wrong in the slightest, then Alfred would be frowned at and ignored by the British resident he was speaking to. Francis did it too, possibly without realising, as he always gave Alfred funny looks when he said that the food the Feliciano brothers cooked was nice.

He continued to lie there for at least a half hour, listening to his steady breathing and watching the rays of light flickered on the bare walls of his room. He occasionally heard a blast of angry Italian from downstairs, and heard the clang of a pan as the brothers started to prepare their next meal. That's all they ever seemed to do during the day; cook and argue; and they were never in any position to go to sleep, even if it was eleven at night. There sometimes was only one brother when he got back, and the one that remained would always claim that the other sibling was visiting a lover of sorts, and that it was hilariously awful. Alfred often had to sit by Lovino and hear him go on and on about the god awful person Feliciano was seeing, and how they had an affinity for root vegetables and beer, and how Lovino himself was definitely _not _interested in anyone at _all_.

Was Alfred interested in anyone? No, he thought, definitely not. He had seen a few female faces he'd like to look at again pass him in the street, but none of them came into the pub to have a drink. He didn't know why; the Marie Antoinette pub was governed by allegedly the most romantically affluent man in the town- Francis was not one to be humble or quiet about his achievements, which only made Alfred all the more desperate to find himself someone to share his cold, bare room with. He'd never dated exclusively in America, the girls at the orphanage were too preoccupied with cooking and cleaning and some of the manual work too, and none of the ladies outside the orphanage ever really looked twice at him. They felt sorry for the tall, slightly gangly man who still hadn't grown into himself yet, and Alfred didn't like that. He didn't need people to feel sorry for him, he was fine without that.

Suddenly fed up with all this thinking he seemed to be doing, he stood up and left the room. Getting himself out and having a walk around before his shift wouldn't hurt anyone. Plus, there was a certain mysterious house he wanted to have another look at before he spent the rest of his evening in a hot, noisy bar.

Alfred didn't know why he was so interested in the house, or why he even cared about who was inside or about all the rumours that were made up about it. It wasn't like there was a lack of other things to be interested in; every evening Alfred got the latest update on a rampant affair between one of Francis' friends and some Austrian, and he picked up various little stories from whoever was sat on the bar downing scotch after scotch. It was remarkable how well the English could hold their liquor- Lovino said it was because the English had iron stomachs due to all that shit they ate, but Feliciano just said it was because English beer wasn't very strong. Both brothers seemed to detest beer, Lovino more so than Feliciano, and they always had a glass of wine with every meal. Alfred knew if he had a glass of wine with every meal, he probably wouldn't make it past midday.

He stretched his arms out as he descended the stairs, not bothering to cover his loud yawn. It was only the Italians and himself in the house, he didn't have to worry about conducting himself with any sort of degree of decorum. The brothers themselves acted like vagabonds; drinking and shouting at each other until Lovino got fed up and punched a hole in something, to which Feliciano would apologise profusely. They were very strange, but Alfred didn't mind them. They were happy, carefree fellows, and not uptight or intense like Francis and the Englishmen he met in the street.

"Where are you going, Alfred? You don't have to be at your work for another two hours." Feliciano emerged from the parlour and poked his arm. His brown hair was mussed, as usual, and that funny little curl stuck out and bounced crazily as he shook his head disapprovingly at Alfred. "Why would you want to go out before its necessary? You could be sleeping, you know, a _siesta_ is just what a person needs before they go out to work, no?"

Alfred shrugged, confused by this outburst. Feliciano was big on sleeping, he slept where he could when he could, but he hadn't realised it was this much of a serious matter. "Well, I…" He fiddled with the top button of his shirt. "… Just wanted to walk around for a bit, y'know, gotta have a look around the town and all- I've only been up and down this street the past week."

Feliciano nodded, and patted his shoulder. "Come back here if you want anything to eat, or if you suddenly become and Italian and want to have a _siesta. Ciao!"_

The Italian returned to the parlour, singing some song in Italian. Feliciano liked to sing, Lovino hated it, but both of them would often burst out into bouts of jaunty Italian songs when they happened to drink too much at dinner. If Alfred had known what they were singing, he would have most definitely joined in, but most of the time he just remained mute and waited for them to erupt into a bout of shouting, which was his cue to leave and go to work.

He opened the door, slowly so the little bell wouldn't ring and get Lovino excited about the prospect of a new customer. He would often just blunder into the door and make the bell ring, and be greeted with Lovino all full of smiles and keys to hotel rooms, only to throw them on the floor and swear angrily when he realised it was just the American coming back from his shift. He hadn't realised that Mama Vargas had been that much of an unpopular place; maybe it was just the obscurity of its placement, and the fact that it was very near the neighbourhood's haunted house.

Speaking of which, Alfred wanted to have a good old stare at it before he had to go to work. He grabbed his coat, which was new and he was proud of it, and headed out into the street. As it was mid-morning, there were a few people just milling by the shops and in front of houses, but apart from that there was no-one around. People tended not to come out of their houses until they needed to, and unlike Alfred, they were much less curious about that which was going on in their neighbourhood. Sure, the housewives all congregated and talked about their husbands or other friends or even just themselves, and their chatter often drifted out into the street for Alfred to listen to, but none of it seemed to be directed to what Alfred thought was the most interesting place in the whole town.

He had been walking for about ten minutes; looking down at his feet so looking up would be something of a surprise when he reached his destination. A woman passed him, and he looked up to give her a customary lopsided smile, to which she returned with first a haughty look and then a forced smile. The response from girls he smiled at was always the same; and he didn't know why. He had been safely assured by Francis that he was 'worthy of _l'amour_', but he had yet to find out if that was actually true. He didn't want to be needy or anything, but why didn't they like him? Was there something wrong with him? Was it his glasses? Yes, it definitely was his glasses; they sat on his face in the most awful way, just like-

And then he was there.

The wooden fence was all rotten and blackened, sticking haphazardly into the ground like stumps of an old man's teeth. The grass in the previously neatly hemmed in garden was overgrown and thorn bushes clawed at the sides of the house, reaching almost up to the long, narrow windows. Alfred didn't know if the windows were hung with black curtains or if it was just grime, but whatever it was, it was very difficult to see through. If anyone was watching him through those windows, he wouldn't have been able to see them, not even a silhouette. Several tiles on the roof were missing, and the roof itself sagged like the back of an overworked horse- Alfred wondered if it would cave in at some point. Maybe that would be enough to drive whoever lived in there out, so Alfred could finally have a good look at this Arthur Kirkland chap. No-one so far had been able to give him a plausible or even realistic description of Arthur Kirkland, and he was starting to think the man himself was just a vision. He would try asking Francis again, despite how he was just brushed away last time.

So what _would _he look like? A small, stooping old man with three teeth and bandy legs? A tall, powerful murderer who had to be chained to the furniture in order to prevent him from slaughtering the town? Whatever he looked like, whether he was old or young, wizened or youthful, Alfred still wanted to find out more about him. Not for any particular reason, he just wanted to _know _so badly.

Stepping closer to the building with his head high and his hands in his pockets, he began to look a little closer. There was another door on the side of the house, one which looked a little less old and creaky, and there was a peephole set in the centre of the front door. From what Alfred could see, the peephole was almost clear, and he half expected someone to be watching him through it.

"Hey, Mr Arthur?" He called, as he had done yesterday, looking up at the windows of the second and third story's. "Mr Kirkland? Are you in there?"

It was childish to say the least, but Alfred didn't care. He just wanted to see a sign. A flick of a curtain, perhaps, or the creak of something inside. But there was nothing, not even a shadow in one of the grimy windows. Alfred stepped back, stumped, looking up at the house as if he was expecting Arthur Kirkland to stick his head out of the window and wave at him. To be honest, he wouldn't know what Arthur Kirkland looked like if he was doing the can-can in a pink dress on the roof of Mama Vargas. Arthur Kirkland could be anyone, he could look like anyone, or he couldn't be anyone at all. For all he knew, this could be a massive wind-up Francis had coordinated, and he was just being led to believe there was some madman living in an old house.

His eyes grazed up and down the house with more intent than usual, searching in an almost desperate way for any sign of someone. He just wanted _something_, a sign, a little clue that would at least tell him that this wasn't all made up.

"Mr Kirkland?" Alfred called again, walking right up to the front gate and leaning over it to stare into one of the bottom floor windows. "If you're in there, Mr Kirkland sir, you wouldn't mind giving us a little wave, would you?" _Oh yeah, Mr Kirkland, why don't you just come and show this little bratty American who you are, and while you're at it, why don't you just fly him to the moon and set him up on a date with Napoleon?_

He was suddenly angry at himself for probing so much, and he rested his hands on the gate with a loud sigh. He wanted to know, he really did, but now it just seemed like something a little child would want. Alfred needed to learn to keep his nose in his own business, and not to stick it into someone else's. Especially if the someone in question is obviously not one to leave the house.

Just as he was about to turn away and go back to Mama Vargas to have a good old moan at himself, something on the gate clinked and dropped onto his shoe. He panicked, and thought with a start that he had broken a part of the gate- the gate certainly didn't look as if it was particularly new or of good quality- but he relaxed somewhat as he knelt down to pick the object up. Well, relaxed in the sense that he wasn't going to have to apologise to anyone for breaking something, but his heart caught in his throat and he almost started to _shake_ as he turned the object over in his hand.

It was round and smooth, perfectly so, and fit so neatly into the palm of Alfred's hand it was like it had been made for him. The chain was long and slid off his hand like a small golden snake; the chains were so small and intricate the maker must have had _tiny _hands. The glass face was scratched in some places, but as Alfred wiped the dirt off it with his thumb, he saw the numerals beneath were clear as ever. There were three hands with little arrows at the end of them, and if Alfred ceased his panicked breathing, he could hear the soft clicking and whirring of the device encased within it.

A pocket watch.

It was a queer object to find anywhere outside a man's pocket, which only made Alfred's discovery all the stranger. As he straightened up, weighing the watch in his hand, he looked once at the gate, once at the house, then back to his hand.

_It couldn't be._

Could the watch have belonged to Mr Kirkland? No, definitely not, the watch had been left on the gate, and it had already been verified that the man did not leave his house at all. It was very possible that a passing gentleman could have dropped it on his way past, and it had just happened to catch on the gate. But surely, a pocket watch that valuable would have just been hanging out of someone's pocket? Alfred frowned, confused. Wherever the watch had come from, be it the street or the madman's house, Alfred was certain someone would be looking for it.

Despite all that, despite all his suspicions and accusations and queries, he pocketed the item, taking one last brief glance at the house before he turned and walked in the direction of the Marie Antoinette. The watch felt heavy in his pocket, heavier than it had been when he picked it up, and it thumped against his side as he walked. He didn't feel guilty, he hadn't done anything wrong, but he had enough sense to be cautious. He would ask Francis if he knew who the watch belonged to, that's what he'd do. Then he would return it, much to the appreciation of the owner, possibly receive a spendable reward, then continue on his merry way. Nothing at all, nothing in the _slightest, _would make him go back to that house again. He would do just fine, and would not need to worry about Arthur Kirkland ever again.

He whistled as he walked, his hands swinging as the Marie Antoinette came into view. He was quite looking forward to his shift this time; he wanted to ask Francis about the watch. But not about the house, no, he mustn't ask questions about the house. He saw how Francis had reacted before; he didn't want that to happen again.

Alfred was going to get some answers.

_The eyes that watched the American through the second story window, for once, were filled with glee. His fingers tapped excitedly on his elbows, and he felt his face split into something like a smile. He had taken the bait._

_Now it was time to reel him in._

_Hope you enjoyed that chapter, sorry it's a little short again, I was running out of time!_

_Have a great Christmas, see you in 2014!_


	6. Chapter 6

_Okay I apologise again for changing my fanfiction name for the second time in not a long while, I got bored of my previous one -.-_

_I'm going to start writing a new USUK fanfiction; it's going to be ongoing like this one so look out for that sometime this month. Or next month… or the month after…_

_So… Alfred's got Arthur's (well, 'Arthur's') watch for reasons even he can't explain, so let's see how our favourite Brit deals with that._

_I also changed the name of this fanfiction, just because 'The Beginning of Always' is a bit cheesy and 'The American Candide' shall be explained in later chapters._

_I was debating on doing this chapter from Arthur's point of view, but ah well._

_Hope you enjoy this chapter! Please review, it really helps! _

_Major character cameo in this one._

So the watch continued to remain in Alfred's trouser pocket for the following three days, clinking as he walked to work, almost falling out as he stumbled back home. He had taken to drinking with Francis and his other friends and racing back to Mama Vargas at the time the Vargas brothers usually expected him to return so they didn't suspect anything. Despite the fact that Alfred had had to be coached in the art of cleaning glasses, pouring drinks and even clearing tables and the Frenchman had been at his wit's end, Francis was not a bad employer. He gave Alfred occasional meals; piles of pastries and pies that were left over or that Francis had made in excess. He also gave Alfred copious amounts of alcohol, despite Alfred telling him how much he never usually drank, and he had also taken to engaging in the Vargas tradition of having a glass of wine with his dinner. He didn't really like wine, it was sour and made him gag, but it made his head fuzzy and his limbs warmer than then he huddled up by the stove during the long nights.

The pocket watch, even though Alfred had been so shocked and curious about it when he had first picked it up, was more or less neglected for the rest of the week. The weather was bitterly cold, it was nearly the end of November now, and Alfred was starting to spot frost on the cobbles and on the house windows as he wandered around the town on his days off. Funnily enough, winter was, as everything else was, completely different in England than in America. It was cold; of course it was, but bleak as well. It sometimes seemed that there was no sky, and that the heavens were exposed in a never-ending stretch of white, and it made Alfred feel so dizzy that he had to look down when he walked.

Alfred had taken to walking around the town when Francis didn't need him to work, just aimless wandering whenever he felt like it. There was always plenty for him to gawp or be shocked at, and the market that was open on Wednesdays and Thursdays often ignored its schedule and was open most days of the week, and vendors just walked around and sold things out of their bags. A lot of the gentleman on their days off, similar to Alfred, turned their noses up at the market, as if the product was of bad quality or that the vendors were undesirable. Alfred couldn't see why; there were so many things he had never seen before that he wished he had enough money to buy. There was exotic fruit of all strange shapes and sizes, vegetables Alfred didn't think even he could eat due to their sheer size, animals, small parakeets that sang in their cages, and all kinds of jewellery. The stalls were alive, bustling with activity, and Alfred couldn't see how anyone could dislike it. If he paid any attention to what Francis said, he would have assumed the British just hated everything to varying amounts. If he _had _listened, he would have probably never done the things proceeding soon after his next shift.

Nothing much had been weighing heavily on his mind since he had found the watch, but that was probably because he spend most of his nights drinking with Francis and his companions, and anything he managed to retain during the day was wiped from his mind by the drink. He'd slept better too, Lovino commented unkindly on the fact that he snored like a herd of cows, but it was better than waking up every night. He did his job, he came home, he ate and slept, and that was it. If anything made Alfred F. Jones more bored than Francis' lectures on how awful England was, it was routine.

He was currently at the section in his routine when he was meant to be working, but Francis was adamant that he needed his third break this hour. So there he was, dressed in slightly smarter clothes than he had been wearing when he had arrived in England and halfway through an apple Danish. The men drinking at the bar blanked him as usual, which gave him great opportunity to observe them as they ploughed through the alcohol like no-one's business. It was at least eight o'clock in the evening, and all the miners had pushed the quiet drinkers out with their shouting and bickering. Alfred didn't mind them too much; they never directed their insults at him and they put a lot of money into the pub. As Francis kept saying, if they drank any more than they already did, he was going to buy a nicer bar and some uniforms for Alfred and Matthew.

_Matthew. _

That was the other problem.

Francis fawned over him like the Canadian was five years old; followed him around, brought him food and, more frequently, alcoholic drinks, but the quiet man just politely refused like he did with everything. It irritated Alfred even though he found Francis' childminding habits odd- couldn't Matthew just be grateful for what he was getting instead of rejecting it all the time? Ah well. It wasn't his problem, and judging by how well he was getting himself wrapped up into this Arthur Kirkland business, it wouldn't do him any harm to keep his nose out of other people's issues.

The Canadian in question was pouring drinks for the miners, silently handing the beers to them with just a nod and a scrape as he swept the coins into his hand. If Alfred's pride had allowed it, he would have said Matthew was a much better bartender than Alfred ever was, but since his belief was that he could do no wrong, Matthew's superiority was quickly dismissed in his mind.

The American sighed, bored out of his mind, both with the pastry and with the evening's events. There were no conversations he could eavesdrop on, at least none that didn't concern wives or money, and Francis had gone off to drink with his friends, leaving the two new workers to awkwardly serve customers in a stifled, unkind silence. Alfred had nothing against Matthew, as far as he knew he was a nice guy, but they just never talked much at all. Francis often mistook Matthew for Alfred, and Alfred himself missed the Canadian out when he was searching the bar for him. He got his name mixed up too, and he wasn't really sure why. Sometimes he wanted to call him Feliciano, sometimes Francis, and most of the time he just forgot who he was entirely.

"_Bonsoir_, colleagues, is everything alright?" Alfred felt a tap to his shoulder, and Francis' face appeared in front of him.

Alfred shrugged, pointing in the vague direction of Matthew. "Matthew's doing this hour; I'm just sitting looking pretty for the miners."

The Frenchman laughed in the way only alcohol made him laugh and patted his shoulder again. "That you are, Alfred, that you are. Care for a drink with your good friend Francis?" The man grinned at him, waving a hand at the beer taps. "You can have anything you want, as long as it's not English."

Francis then erupted into a blast of drunken laughter, patting his arm now- half because he was French and overly friendly, and half for support as he was beginning to sway.

Alfred just smiled and extricated his arm from Francis' grip. "Maybe in a minute, I'm just keeping an eye on Mattie, in case these miners get a bit rowdy, y'know?" It was a bad cover up, but a quick drink with Francis equated to a night of raucousness and an awful headache in the morning, so he was eager to decline.

The Frenchman was much too tipsy to be able to reply coherently. "Yes, yes, you take care of Matthew, wherever he's gone. You know, I can never seem to find that Canadian when I need him." With that, Francis drifted back through the tables and chairs to sit by his two friends, and the air was quickly filled with laughter and clinking glasses as, for the fifth time that week, Francis neglected his duties and melted into the background noise. Well, not really background, considering Francis' German friend had a tendency to boom like a foghorn whenever something was mildly amusing.

Alfred sighed again, grabbing a stool and sitting himself down so his back rested against the wall, crossing his legs and watching the men talking at the bar. They were arguing and bickering again, slamming their drinks against the surface of the bar and passing glares to each other as they drank and drank and drank. He couldn't quite pinpoint the reason of their argument; there were no names or wives mentioned, so Alfred was praying they were going to say something useful soon so he could at least go home with some gossip on his shoulders.

"Something wrong gents?" Alfred had taken to calling groups of men 'gents', as the man who sold fruit at the market did as people passed by. He thought it was a nice term; it was irritating to the people it was directed at, but Alfred, as usual, persisted. He didn't like talking to the men who came to drink in the _Marie Antoinette_; they were loud and often rude to him if they thought he was prying into their business. However, he had learned a few tricks from Francis about coaxing information out of the miners, and casual concern was one of the methods.

The miners all looked up at him, and for a brief moment Alfred was contemplating what would happen if he just got up and left to the cellar in an attempt to escape the awkwardness caused by him asking that question. The silence soon vanished though, as a small man wearing soot smudged spectacles lifted his glass from where it had been permanently against his lips to speak.

"You not had no ears this past week?" He slurred, leaned forwards away from his companions so Alfred could hear him. Or, more likely, so he could look like he was telling a massive secret. Gossip spread like wildfire through the miners; it didn't matter what sort of gossip, wives or murderers or even both at once, it was still as interesting to them as Matthew was to Francis.

"Uh, no." The way the miners spoke always confused Alfred, and he never knew whether a sentence was positive, negative, or insulting. "Just out of the circle I guess."

The miner chuckled, took a long draught from his beer and continued talking. "They say that Kirkland fella's been stirring up trouble in that haunted shack of his while we've been at work."

Trouble in England could mean everything from a brutal kidnap and murder to a split teabag, so Alfred was keen to discover where on the scale this apparent abomination lay. At the mention of Mr Kirkland, his pulse quickened, and for the first time in a few days he felt the cold watch burning through his trouser pocket. What had happened?

"So, what's he done?" Alfred stood from his stool and found an empty glass to clean. He always found cleaning glasses whilst talking made him look more professional, and would hopefully provoke this man into more talking. Now an event had been outlined, an event concerning the neighbourhood phantom, he was _incredibly _eager to hear more.

The miner sighed and shook his head, but still kept that drunken grin. "Some of the lads have been complaining about things stolen, an' they're all pretty convinced that bastard's been sneaking his pale arse around and pinchin' their things when they've been haulin' coal in. Won't be the first time either, you'd think with that bloody great house of 'is he wouldn't have to crumb around like a bloody dirty beggar."

Alfred hadn't understood half of those words in the given context, but he looked concerned and nodded anyway. Something that had been stolen, stolen from the miners, hadn't they been talking about this before? Yes, and they had been complaining about a missing watch. Alfred could almost hear the resonating tick of that pocket watch he currently had on his person, and he began to become awfully conscious of what was going on.

"What kind of things does he steal? I'm guessing food and stuff like that, if he's that desperate." Alfred was babbling now, saying the first things that entered his mind for the sake of saying them. He wanted to know more, he wanted to find out exactly what was going on, for the sake of the owner of the watch he currently had in his pocket and because of his unhealthy interest with the goings-on of someone who had not even been seen for fifteen years.

The miner shook his head, and Alfred began to feel foolish. "You see, if he had been stealin' food and objects of that ilk the wives would've turned out their pockets to give 'im any little scraps they could. A man left to starve in winter is the recipe for a murder, it's happened before." The man seemed to lose his train of thought so he took another gulp of beer, then the train appeared to wrench back into motion as he slammed his drink down and faced Alfred again. "You see, he's been stealin' men's trinkets; all their pocket watches and fountain pens and the like."

Alfred was a little taken aback by the noise the glass made on the surface of the bar, but he didn't show it. Francis had told him miners could see a man jump in fright in the darkness of a mine shaft. They were not the type of people who were frightened easily, or if they were, they wouldn't show it, even for an over ground job.

"What for?" He asked. "Why does he steal watches and things, what does he use them for?"

Another shake of the head. Alfred was starting to see his questions as a little pointless. "No-one knows, but nothing is ever returned, there's never any evidence of theft or the like, just nothin'. It's just like a ghost reaches into their pockets an' takes 'em, no-one's every had anything returned."

Doubt rose inside him, and Alfred was beginning to wonder whether this tale had been somewhat varnished by the many drunken nights spent discussing it in the pub. "Are you sure he stole them? I mean anyone could have taken them while you were working, right?"

The miner leaned further forwards, and there was a long silence between them. Alfred was frozen, not sure of what to say. The now solidly drunk man's eyes were fixed on him suspiciously, and although he was much smaller and more portly than Alfred, he still look intimidating. Alfred had never fought anyone in his life, he wasn't sure if he would still be standing if this man decided Alfred had offended him in any way. When someone in England was insulted, they didn't brush it off. If someone in England was insulted, they made sure the insulter was none too metaphorically hung, drawn and quartered.

"Are you sayin' I made this bollocks up?" His voice was raised, but the other miners were equally drunk so little attention was paid to him. "Arthur Kirkland bloody did it, we all know he did, we just need proof now."

"I apologise, I didn't mean to say…." Alfred trailed off, knowing he was about to eat shit for what he had said.

Now the miner was rising from his seat, almost as if he was going to leap over the bar and personally throttle Alfred. "I am bloody right, and if you don't think so, you can take your bloody American head and-"

"I leave for five minutes for a smoke and _this _is what happens?" Alfred was expecting it to be Francis, but this voice was accented in a much different way. The words were not smooth and lilting, they were sharp and carefully pronounced, as if the man was afraid of getting the words wrong but too haughty to admit his mistake. Instead of the Frenchman he saw a short Asian man wearing some kind of silk robe and a delicate scowl. He didn't look best pleased with Alfred, but as the miner who had been about to punch Alfred's face in was gracefully pushed away by a hand covered in ornate rings, he realised he wasn't in too much shit with this guy.

The man, who the other miners regarded with expressions ranging from fear to confusion to admiration. Whoever this strange man was, he demanded respect like Alfred demanded answers, and that put Alfred slightly on edge. He was still well on his way to tottering back to Mama Vargas covered in bruises and insults, just possibly more than if that miner had decided to punch him. he decided to place he words carefully, and speak only when spoken to. If he could manage that for an entire conversation, he was certainly treating himself to another hangover tomorrow.

"And why were you provoking a man of such lesser profession in that manner?" The man's dark eyes turned to him, and they were just as bored and uninterested as they had been looking at the miner.

Alfred shrugged without helping it, trying to dismiss his discomfort around this new man. There was a languid, laid back air about him, but so laid back it was almost as if he functioned in a sort of dormant half-asleep state.

"He thought I was confronting him about something." Alfred managed to say, trying his best to stay within the 'don't speak unless spoken to' rule. It would get him not extra information, but it would keep him out of trouble for another day. There had been no major scuffles since the incident which had left him blundering into the Kirkland estate, but he could feel one pending as he could the bad weather.

The man's lips quirked into a sort of half-smirk, and he had that half-asleep half-interesting look a lion or a tiger has when viewing a lesser inedible life form. "What was this something? A woman perhaps, or a possession?"

"No, none of those." Alfred wanted to ask this man who exactly he was and why exactly he was talking to him, but he didn't want to seem rude. "Just a man."

An eyebrow was raised, and Alfred realised just how his answer could have been interpreted. "Interesting. A particular man, or just a passing fancy from the street?"

Alfred flushed, but kept his optimism for a promising conversation up. "No, nothing like that, a man who's been stealing things." Suddenly the words wouldn't stop. "There's a house down the road, I'm sure you know it, and in there lives-"

"Arthur Kirkland?" The man's voice was hushed because he was laughing so much, and his slim little hands smacked against the bar as he showed the entire audience of miners just how completely hilarious he found Alfred's answer. Once again, Alfred was flushing in embarrassment and considering just leaving. "That man couldn't steal something if it was opium and he was an addict."

"You know him?" Shit. He was never going to walk away from this pub alive at this rate.

The slim hands waved away his question like it was particularly pungent smoke. "No, no, no-one _knows_ the creature he is now, I just happen to know a lot about his past." A coy glance was passed his way, but Alfred completely missed the devious and plotting expression that hid behind that smile.

"Who are you?" Alfred asked incredulously, realised how bad this sounded, and tried to cover it up with a lame excuse. "I mean, you know so much about Mr Kirkland and you pushed that miner away like he was dirt, are you a friend of Francis'?"

The man was shaking his head as if Alfred's very existence was wrong. "First of all, Francis is as much of a friend as the Queen is to me, that miner _was _dirt, and a considerable amount of it, and finally my identity is not something a young man like you should be concerning themselves with."

Alfred thought he had never met a man so clever but rude in his entire life. "No-one does that in England; you ask someone's name, they tell you." Why was he saying this? _Why _couldn't he just stay quiet like Matthew and never get himself into trouble like this? "So, tell me your name."

There was a flicker of amusement in the man's eyes, then they grew hard as his mouth continued to smile. "Aiyah, you're none too sharp for an American." He sighed, his narrow shoulders slumping as he swiped an untouched beer from under the nose of an arguing miner. The miner swore angrily and turned to spit insults at the thief, spotted who it was, fell awfully silent, then turned back to his companions.

A long pause later, the strange man at the bar spoke again. "I have many names, most of which you don't need to fuss yourself with, but you may call me Yao."

"Yao?" Alfred took a moment to process this. "Okay. I'm Alfred, by the way."

Yao's eyes resumed that amused air of a cat watching a dog from its perch on a wall. "I know."

"You know my name? Did Francis tell you?" He was going to have to stitch that French bastard's mouth shut if he kept spouting things about him. First it was that he was single, now his _name_.

Yao steepled his fingers and looked at him with an unblinking stare. "No, I just know these things."

"Where do you even work? The market?" The questions were just flooding into his mind now, he couldn't help it.

Yao raised an eyebrow again, but this time he laughed. "I work at a sort of _market,_ you could say that. If you know the Golden Elephant pub, oh you do, good, I am always there. Just ask the bartender for me, and he'll show you where to go." Something was passed across the countertop, and Alfred caught it in his fingers. It was a small square of fabric, not very large at all, and it had not embellishments of any sort or any decoration in the slightest. By the time he had raised it to his nose and given it a sniff, Yao had melted away into the shadows of the evening,

The scent was cloying, smoky, but instantly Alfred wanted to keep that fabric pressed to his nose like a madman for eternity. The smell was thick in his nostrils, and it sent his head spinning, all the while making him feel like he really needed to sleep then and there at the bar. The world seemed to slow down, and it was only when he had inhaled the scent several times that he realised just what the substance was. He knew it all too well, seeping through his bedroom door his mother tried so hard to plus, blowing from the mouths of the giggling girls always there to 'take his father someplace'.

_Opium._

Confused and more or less shaken by his discovery, he tucked the cloth into his pocket before anyone could notice it and looked around for Matthew. Where _was _he? He'd been tending the bar when Alfred had been talking, right? And now he was just… gone. It irritated him when he did that, but to be honest it didn't really matter. Matthew was no-one really, at least he didn't think so, and he would be able to mind the bar by himself and pour drinks and stuff. Alfred thought it best that he should go back to Mama Vargas and think things over; he'd had enough of Frenchman and miners and _drug lords _for one day. Maybe tomorrow he could at least try asking Yao about Arthur Kirkland without becoming too addicted to that _lovely _smoke. No, no, he couldn't think like that. He _wouldn't _think like that.

He made his way to the back of the pub, past the cellar and out of the rear entrance. The short path led out onto the main street, so he was able to walk home normally, meaning no dangerous side streets or back alleys would have to be taken.

He never saw Matthew looking after him with a sort of sad expression.

Looking around as he walked, he remembered the Golden Elephant pub was somewhere on this street, but he would find it tomorrow when there was more light in the sky and courage in his heart. He had been shaken a little by his conversation with Yao, but he certainly wasn't going to miss out on a new place to explore and a new source of information about Arthur Kirkland. Despite his lack of attention to the pocket watch these past few days, he was still overly intrigued by the recluse in his haunted house, and he was determined to find out everything about him before it started to snow and he would have more important things to think about. Mama Vargas was already horribly cold at night despite the numerous stoves, so December was going to be a horrible challenge.

He passed the miner's houses, all shabbily arranged in sketchy lines, and then the houses of the richer men with their long, wide windows and delicate gardens. He liked those houses, he kept saying that that's what Mama Vargas was going to look like once they got more customers, and he wondered just _how _rich one would have to be before one could live in a house as lovely as that. He hoped it wasn't that much, otherwise he was going to have to start stealing watches…

As usual, his thoughts drifted to the strange man in his strange house as he walked past it, and he looked it up and down thoughtfully. _Had _he stolen that watch? And if he had, why? He wanted to know so _badly_, and no-one was telling him, but his optimism persisted. He would find out, of course he would, and then he could get on with his life.

Was that a note?

Pinned to one of the spikes on the gate was a scrap of torn paper, and it fluttered in the wind as if it was alive as Alfred walked closer to the house. He didn't even bother asking himself why, he just took it in his stride; he would ask Yao questions tomorrow. Asking himself questions never ended him up anywhere useful.

As it was typical of Alfred F. Jones to do, he pulled the note from its place and held it up to read.

The writing was thin and spidery, messy yet cursive, and Alfred's heart jumped. _He _had written this.

Once he had gotten over his initial excitement and partial fear of what the note could say, he began to read it. It was short, only a line long, but Alfred had to re-read it several times in case he had misread it.

It couldn't be. It _shouldn't _be. How could this have happened? Alfred felt his heart strike up a beat which frightened him massively, and the hand holding the note shook. Written in that scruffy but beautiful writing were these five small but horribly terrifying words:

_I want my watch back._

_Please review this chapter if you liked it, tell me what you thought!  
_

_Sorry not sorry about Yao I just really like the idea of him being a Victorian drug lord hhhhh_e didn't


End file.
